8 Thunderbirds Are Go: Turnaround
by Math Girl
Summary: With Scott and Kayo held captive, and the Mechanic once more a hunted criminal, the Tracys must fight to remain on the right side of the law as they rescue a wandering planet.
1. Chapter 1

Feeling shy, saying hello, hoping you like it. =)

 **Turnaround**

 **1**

 _Tracy Island, down in the massive, underground lab complex-_

He might never get another chance like this one. _No,_ he wasn't glad that Mr. Brain's pregnant wife was in trouble. Wouldn't wish that on anybody… but it meant that his worried boss had left him alone in that big, noisy lab, with all that a guy could want in the way of special equipment. Not much supervision, either, because even Max was busy keeping those Birds in the air, and helping their pilots come home. As for sensors and crap like that, the GDF-blocking "camera glitch" had cut those off, making his movements almost invisible. But that was only half the story.

Thing was, Caleb Gonzalez had been on the Island, helping Mr. Brain for _months_. Long enough to learn his way around the lab, crack some codes and maybe, actually do it; access the far future and bring Kaise back. He hadn't forgotten her. Wouldn't let himself. Could still hear her laugh and cute, chirping voice; see her tall, skinny form. Like the poet said: Lovely in her bones. Her big green eyes and that mane of heavy blonde hair. Could still feel her touch, from when she'd held his hand on the sunny, warm beach, that day. He'd sort of tried to kiss her, then, with stupid, funny, nose-bumping results.

Yeah. Altered-past memories were all that was left and the only thing he could cling to, since time had swept her away. Like a missing tooth, y'know? That place you kept poking your tongue in, not really quite believing. Only worse, because sometimes he missed her so bad, he thought he would die.

Weird, that he wasn't sure how they'd met, any longer. Something to do with a meteor strike, or crap like that. He couldn't remember. Well, he and Kaise could figure it out, once she was here… and now was his chance to get moving on that.

Caleb took a quick, casual look around, just to be sure. All he wanted was Kaise back, not to cause trouble, or get kicked off the team. He had to be careful. Made like he was checking equipment, even picking up and carrying Mr. Brain's dropped tablet. Made him look more official.

The time crystal was off-limits. Didn't know how to control its jumps and didn't dare risk wiping out half the lab complex, screwing around with something that dangerous. Walked right past _that_ triple-locked door without even looking.

But, the new transport disk, the one Mr. Brain had improved from Reeves' first design… _that,_ Caleb thought he could manage. Like, y'know… fifty-thirty (with twenty percent being _'who the heck knows'_ ). It wasn't locked up, even. Not very fancy, either. Just a prototype, his boss called it; all jury-rigged parts and trailing cables, humming like a nest of hornets as it bled the Island's powerplant.

Circular in shape, and a little less than knee-high in size, the circuit-laced disk took up half of the transport lab, with a computer workstation crammed in on the side across from the main doors. Caleb had spent a lot of time there, recently, and he knew the place well.

The dark-haired, substitute aquanaut felt his gut clench as he walked into that brightly-lit room. Looked down at his borrowed tablet and pushed a few windows around with a forefinger, just like he was actually doing his part-time job. Spotted something, then. A choked-off signal from the submarine access tunnel. It was opening up to admit a 'friendly'.

 _Hunh._ Thunderbird 4 was on her way over, in the belly of Virgil Tracy's ride, Thunderbird 2. So… who else would use the undersea access tunnel, without calling in to say "hey"?

Caleb scowled, his dark eyebrows knitting themselves over worried brown eyes. Then, just like that, he figured it out. FAB-1, of course; coming in on the down-low to stay off of GDF radar. _Duh_. Lady P did that, sometimes, when her wonder-car was in sea-going mode. She was a spy, right? Just back from Pacifica City with John Tracy, probably.

Relieved, the young man walked a quarter-way 'round the buzzing transport disk to Mr. Brain's deserted workstation. There, he put down that borrowed tablet, cracked his knuckles, and set straight to work, making things right again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Awake, and uncertain-_

For the second time in two days, Scott Tracy shuddered himself back to consciousness, not sure where the h*ll he was, or what was going on. Moments before, he'd been swept up into the roaring maw of a cyclone. Now…

He opened his eyes in a hurry, thinking of Granddad, Mom and the rest of his family, only… they weren't around. Instead, he was lying down on a bare concrete floor, with two blurry figures bending close over him. Head hurt, body ached, needed water and food, but he managed to blink his vision almost back into line. Heard,

"Scott, dearest… are you quite alright?"

That cultured accent was a dead giveaway, and _no,_ he wasn't alright. Not even a little bit.

"Penny?" the pilot asked, in a scratchy-dry voice.

"And me," said the other. John, it sounded like. "You're safe now, Scott."

Penny was holding something to his mouth, as John helped him sit up. Bottle of water; sweet and cold as anything he'd ever tasted, beside Mom's peach iced tea. Rescued, he guessed… only the recent 'visit' to lost family still sat like a rock on his heart. Not their fault, though, and no real way to explain. They'd just write it off as concussion, or something.

Instead of talking, he drained the last of that water like a victim plucked from the blistered surface of Mercury and tried to feel grateful. Place he was in seemed dim and industrial, with exposed pipes and bare, unfinished grey walls. A corridor of some sort.

"Where are we?" he asked, as something chased around the corners of his mind that didn't make sense. "How'd you find me?"

"We simply tracked your wrist comm, dear one," said Penny, with a warm smile in her voice. "It wasn't _that_ hard, for an agent of my caliber."

"Especially with a little online help," John put in, shifting Scott's weight further forward. But… why was he so d*mn weak? And why did everything feel wrong?

"What happened to Pacifica City?" the pilot hazarded, plucking that question from some deep and fevered subconscious well.

"Whatever can you mean, Darling?" Penny enquired, smiling softly; leaning in as if for a kiss. "You were engaged in the rescue of two small boys trapped in a crumbling manufactory, when the roof collapsed. Fortunately, our Virgil has located the little scamps, and _we_ have found you. Shall we proceed to Thunderbird 1?"

Without a medical scan? A few things clicked in Scott's mind, at that. Some loose suspicions and vagrant thoughts gelling to form a quite solid 'H*ll, no.' He took a deep breath and then pulled away from his concerned 'brother' and lovely, golden-haired Penny.

"Stop," he ordered them. "Cut the bullsh*t and _talk_ to me. Who are you, and what the h*ll do you want from me?"

Whatever response Scott had expected, it wasn't that his rescuers would just fade, becoming barely-possible ghosts moving in silent slow-motion. Their background changed, too, shifting to dim unreality.

There was a man approaching. Less walking than just getting bigger and more solid by the moment. Scott struggled to his feet, wishing he knew where he was, or how he'd got there. Certainly wasn't in Kansas, anymore… though most of his heart was.

The oncoming man was tall; between John and himself in height, Scott estimated. He looked a lot like Kayo; black hair, green eyes, sinewy figure. Not the Hood, though. Too young. Dressed in a charcoal grey business suit of expensive, tailored cut, he looked like an arrogant, handsome, jet-set billionaire.

They stared at each other in silence for a long, brittle moment, each refusing to show weakness by making the first move. Then, their misty surroundings began to take the form of a corner office conference room. Long wooden table, swiveling office chairs, white board, eagle's-nest view; the works. Phantom John and Penelope were still gesturing and reacting, off to one side, looking like someone had swiped-left and minimized a still-open window.

There was a frosty pitcher of ice water on the boardroom table, so Scott filled himself a glass and drank it down, never taking his eyes off the green-eyed young man. Early to mid-twenties, Scott figured, wishing that he felt less thirsty and drained. Something told him that _this_ was no phantom.

"It isn't real, and so cannot satisfy," the man explained, smiling slightly. "Genuine, physical needs will cut through illusion every time. The machines may provide overall hydration, but your throat remains dry. Thus, you experience thirst. Hunger, as well."

"Where am I?" Scott demanded, changing the subject. He set the glass down on the tabletop, determined not to try drinking again. Not here. Outside, long ribbons of glittering air traffic streamed by, herded by blinking security drones. Any city, anywhere.

"Safe," said the other man. "For the moment, if evidently not very comfortable or cooperative. Suspicious, aren't you? Straightforward questioning has accomplished nothing. Nor has the appearance of welcoming family and friends. Worthless specters, the lot of them." And with that, he waved a hand, causing the ghosts of John and Penny to vanish away.

Scott felt his muscles bunch, as a horrible thought took hold.

"What did you do to them? My family in Kansas? Where are they?"

The dark-haired man shrugged. Made a second, _can't be bothered_ gesture that opened a window in midair. Through it, Scott saw absolute destruction and ruin. No house, stable or barn. Not anymore. Just matchsticks and open cellars. Then the scene zeroed in, as though knowing just what he was looking for.

There was… he saw a thin, twisted arm in a pink sleeve, projecting from out of the rubble. Over there, what looked like somebody's jean-clad leg.

"They were real," Scott gasped, like someone had punched him right in the gut. "You son of a bitch, _they were real!"_

And he leapt or tried to. Got nowhere at all, because he could not seem to move forward. The other man cocked his head a bit, seeming pensive.

"I suppose so, from their perspective, and yours, having been part of that, erm, created reality. Fascinating technology. Stolen, of course, but all the better because of it."

Scott wanted nothing more than to beat that smirking, immaculate bastard right down to his socks.

"Send me back, God d*mn you!" the pilot snarled, fighting to keep his voice below a shout. "I've got to dig them out! There might… might be somebody still left alive!"

Again, that slight head cock, the faintly amused half-smile.

"In return for…?" the other man hinted, but Scott was too troubled… tired, thirsty and frantic with worry… to think straight, or bargain with snakes.

"In return for me not letting my brothers kill you, when they find this place."

"Ah. Very generous… Scott, isn't it? Yes, well… I am not at your physical location. We are communicating through a shared, partly psionic network, not unlike your own 'simulation chamber'."

Scott felt a thin, icy river course down his spine.

"How do you know about that?" he demanded aggressively, once again trying to lunge forward and grab his smiling tormentor, who remained always just out of reach. "Who else have you captured?!" Because _he_ sure as h*ll hadn't spilled any secrets.

Nikorr Kyrano smiled at the projected shade of his distant prisoner, saying,

"It makes me happier than I can express, to leave you wondering, Tracy. Go then. Pick up what shreds remain to you."

And, just like that, he was gone; batted aside like a figure of cobwebs and smoke. The Kyrano had another guest to attend to, only this one was not far, at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl and Tikatu. =) Hi, Taylor J! Will respond forthwith (and get ready for work, tomorrow).

 **2**

 _Yokosuka, Japan, in the midst of a disintegrating VIP hospital suite-_

In his haste, he touched one of those glittering aerial darts. Just for a second. A brief, slight shoulder brush. His own fault; stuff was moving again, and he'd neglected to include a few sigma, either way, into his movement calculations. Anyhow, touched the d*mn thing, which hung there glowing like a porch-icicle, splintering sunlight.

Immediately, John's left arm went dead; utterly numb and paralyzed from shoulder to fingertips. Right. He thought of something and said it. The one insult that worked in pretty near _every_ ancient language, plus modern Basic. After that, he got back to business. Just, with only one working arm (it being that kind of day).

The room was a slowly animating still-life, featuring chunks of masonry and hurtling force blasts, instead of fruit, skulls and books. There was wind like slow-flowing syrup, and people, just beginning to stir.

Life got really interesting, really quick, after that. There was so the h*ll much going on that Jaeger couldn't quite grip it all. Maybe battle AIs got tired, too? Whatever, John took hold of Lee with a tight, cross-the-chest underarm hold, and then muscled his uncle out of the way and onto the floor, employing a pretty fair wrestling move.

Like someone had flipped a switch, everything came back to roaring motion and life, as soon as John hit the crumbling floor with Lee Taylor.

 _-Schnell, -_ Jaeger repeated, through his staticky wrist comm. (Hurry)

"Ich versuche!" John snapped. ("I'm trying!")

On the brighter side, Lee came up like a cat with two tails, rolling into a ready crouch not too much slower than John did.

"…the _h*ll?!"_ Taylor grunted. Then, "Never mind!" as one of those darts nearly parted his brownish-grey hair. Meanwhile, Rigby seized Doctor Shiro, who recovered pretty well, all things considered. No sign of Kayo or Scott, though… and that room wasn't simply exploding, it was coming apart at the frickin' seams. Recycling nanites, or something?

Couldn't tell and didn't have time to find out. Instead, working together, John, Lee and Rigby passed Doctor Shiro the h*ll out of Dodge, heaving him straight out those blown-apart doors like a team of circus acrobats. In the meantime, Jaeger had begun to retreat; his streaks of crimson energy falling back toward the corridor, where there was still some functional wiring. Past time to go, only Rigby wouldn't budge.

"Where is she?" the Marine demanded, making as if to head for the crumbling edge and that windy, long drop.

"That wasn't Kay, or Scott, either," John explained rapidly. "Somebody's got them, and put in a couple of subs."

Rigby's blunt face did something complex as he glared at John. Said, in a shaky voice,

"If you're lying to get me out of here, Mr. Tracy…"

"You can try to kill me, later," the astronaut promised, giving Rigby a hard, one-armed shove. "Why not? Everyone else has."

Maybe the Marine didn't like to think he'd been duped by an imposter, but he was smart enough not to argue. As the old Klingon saying went: _Only a fool fights in a burning house._

"Jaeger, Aufzugsschacht!" snapped John, as he dove away from the edge of advancing destruction, where walls and floor were ceasing to exist. _'Elevator shaft',_ because Penny was down there, somewhere. The AI flared assent, following wires, circuits and router signals along the hospital walls to the VIP elevator. But their job wasn't finished, because others were present, as well. Concierge, guards, Shiro; they got everyone as far from trouble as possible. Then, John hit his battered wrist comm.

"Brains," he called out, "Need a signal broadcast to my location. Anything you've got that'll switch off haywire nanites."

Wasn't certain he'd gotten through, because after that he was too busy trying to not die, and save the rest of that tall, crowded hospital.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, at the columned Hickham Officer's Club-_

Didn't take all that long to make landfall, but between taxiing in, handing the shuttle over to proper authority and clearing customs, she arrived after Kraft. Made it to the big, graceful white O-Club to find her friend waiting for her at a table on the shady lanai. Two fresh Mai-Tais lined up and waiting, but no food. No need. The club had a buffet set up, featuring everything (including some cindered Proxima specialties).

"Hey, Em!" she greeted her grinning fellow officer.

"Hey, yourself, Ree!"

Ridley embraced Emma, reached for one of those jewel-toned, fruit laden drinks, and then stopped herself.

 _"Sh*t!"_ she grumbled. "I'm in uniform, and they're still unloading my baggage!"

Kraft, sensibly, had changed into civvies; wearing jeans, sandals and a no-nonsense blue tee-shirt. No makeup, with her blondish-brown hair in a loose ponytail. Emma snorted with amusement, then reached around for the backpack she'd slung from one corner of her wrought iron chair. Smiling, she slung the blue-and-gold pack at Ridley.

"Clothes and shoes inside," she said. "You're shorter than me, but not by much, so it ought to fit. Go get off-duty, woman!"

"You're a goddess!" Ridley laughed, seizing and slinging the bag. "I'll be right back!"

"I'll be right here," Em responded, sinking back into her cushioned seat, and a drink of her own. Hawaii's constant soft breeze and golden sunshine… those rattling palm fronds, swishing fan-blades and trilling birds… were just as good as she remembered, but Kraft had a lot on her mind.

Then Ridley came striding back out of the club again, fussing at her long, auburn hair with both hands. How she could walk and braid at the same time was beyond Emma, who could just about manage an updo. (With a lot of pins and foul language, that is.) Now, Kraft cocked a slim eyebrow.

"What'd you do, get dressed on the way in? That was _fast."_

"Motivation, Chica!" joked Ridley, pulling a seat out with one hand and reaching for that siren-sweet drink with the other. Emma's jean shorts and purple "Girl Boss" tee-shirt were a bit loose on her, but the sandals fit alright, and anyhow, Ree didn't care. She was decently clad, and out of d*mn uniform.

"Easy on the sauce," said Emma, as Ridley drained one glass and then started to reach for the next. "Flight departs in three hours, and you're always a pain in the ass, when somebody else has the con."

O'Bannon sighed, then set down her glass. (Ate the cherry, though.)

"I'll take it slow, Em," she promised, trying hard to keep the mischief out of her big, grey eyes. "Now, what's going on with the boys? I got another ping from Tracy, coming out here. Says he's okay, but we all know how trustworthy _that_ is."

Kraft chuckled.

"Same," she admitted. "Taz could be coming apart in midair, ass on fire, and he'd call me to say it's all good. Except, well…" Kraft grew serious, suddenly, shifting around in her seat. "Except he's kind of hurting, right now. Something's happened to 'S'."

They weren't private, and camera drones could see and hear from very great distances. Best to be careful.

"Bad?" Ridley whispered, feeling her stomach knot.

"Just about worst," Emma confirmed with a nod, adding, "Go get some food in your gut to soak up that jet fuel, and we'll head on out. Mail pilot promised to wait, but I don't want to push it, _or_ miss our flight."

"Copy that," O'Bannon agreed, rising to go forage at the buffet table. "Although, push comes to shove, I could just sign out a shuttle and fly us there."

Kraft shook her head, green eyes once again merry.

"Not within twenty-four hours of having a drink, you won't. Not unless you're willing to throw it all up again, right here and now."

"Blasphemy!" Ridley laughed, rebelliously taking another swig of her sunset-dyed Mai Tai. "Hang tight, Em. Back in a flash, and if they love me, they'll have egg-salad."

The girls were attracting some covert looks and speculative whispers, because you had only to appear on the arm of a Tracy to be instantly famous. Nobody bothered them, though… and the Club did, indeed, have heaps of creamy egg-salad. Last thing to go right (besides wrapping herself around Tracy) for quite some time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Small and alone, in her own private corner of hell-_

Tanusha in real life had been many months shaking off her mother's final command to be silent and still. This time, she ground her teeth until the enamel cracked. Clenched her small fists, and forced herself to stand upright, butting at the hole's heavy cover with her aching head. Couldn't quite shift it, for all her trying. Too little, and deeply confused.

The cyborgs noticed her presence, of course, using sensors other than eyes. All at once, her peeping face was at the centre of a web of crisscrossing laser lines, and she glowed with tiny, sparkling red dots; like jewels, all over her parka.

The machine-folk clattered and buzzed toward her; smelling of hot metal and roasting meat. Some were mostly humanoid, still. Others, completely machine, except for a hidden organic brain. One she could reach for and…

Something flew into the shack with the howling wind. It flashed through that shattered doorway arcing up and then down, to _'tik'_ and skitter across the uneven stone floor. A grenade. An EMP grenade. Its tiny red light flashed once, twice and then it went off, sending a pulse of silent, ruinous power hurtling through those prowling cyborgs.

They crashed to the ground like junked cars at a scrap yard, only their meat parts still functioning. Just like that, they were helpless. Too weak to move their own heavy limbs. Then Dad charged in, tall and strong; his hair still brown and springy, like Scott's. Behind him, armed with a business-like laser rifle, came Uncle Lee. Both of them wore heavy weather gear and looked much younger than Tanusha's blurred memory. They saw her parents' torn bodies and reacted with genuine pain and rage. She could feel them blaming themselves for arriving too late to save Momma and Papa. Then, just as Dad and Lee Taylor were placing their own coats over the headless forms of her father and mother, they locked up like statues.

Someone else came into the tumble-down structure, which whistled with wind and blown, tracked-in snow. He seemed to just appear rather than walk in. A tall man, black-haired and green-eyed, like _her._ He was not dressed for polar weather, wearing some sort of black bodysuit pocked with moving, crystalline spiders. Didn't seem to feel cold, though. At least, his breath didn't smoke, and he wasn't shivering. Tanusha felt that she ought to remember him, but his name would not come. Wiped out, like her reason for being here.

Glancing once at those piled, defenceless cyborgs, he lashed out with sudden force, choking off the signal from brain to heart and lungs. In seconds, the twitching assassins were dead, every last one of them.

Then, with a sidelong look at Tanusha's hiding place, he crossed the room to stand before Dad and Lee Taylor. Looked them up and down with scorn before turning to say,

 _"This?_ These, Tanusha, are what you've elevated as equals?"

Her mind lunged for his, trying to stop him, but it did no good whatever. His chilly green eyes narrowed, staring at Uncle Lee, as blood began seeping from the older man's nose, ears and mouth.

"NO!" Tanusha cried out. "No! Leave him alone! _Stop!"_

But the man, handsome, cold and hard as a diamond, had no pity at all. Somehow, she found strength enough to half-raise that heavy wood cover, scrabbling to crawl out from under. Lost a small boot and some skin, as it slammed back into place, but the frantic young girl barely noticed.

Lee was on the floor, by then. Her adopted father, already buckling. She could feel their minds go out, just as Momma and Papa's had. Tanusha dove for them, only to be locked up by their killer.

Cocking his head to one side, he both regarded his handiwork and held the girl frozen; commanding her simply to stand.

"Easily dealt with," he mused, adding, "I cannot imagine why Vikran experienced such trouble… unless it was his regrettable tendency to gloat over victims. I have always preferred to just get the task over with. Now, having put down their sire, let us turn to the litter."

A lazy wave of his gloved hand caused a sort of screen or window to wink open in mid, needled air. Through it, Tanusha saw her brothers' small school, back in Kansas. Scott would be there, she knew, along with John, Virgil and Gordon. Tanusha could not move or cry out, could not even gasp, when the entire structure burst into roaring flame, its doors and windows sealing themselves shut with bands of glowing force. Then, the image changed, shifting to display a quiet farmhouse, many miles from town. Granddaddy and Grandma… Alan…!

"Please," she managed, with head-splitting effort. "Please, _no._ I'll do what you want. Just let them live. Bring them back."

The man studied her for a moment, seeming puzzled.

"Curious. The other one said much the same thing. And, perhaps cooperation would be preferable to sneaking rebellion... to which this family is unfortunately prone. Very well, Tanusha. You shall see that I can be generous."

Something happened, then. The whole world seemed to blink and skip backward, suddenly, leaving Dad and Lee still frozen upright, and all of the rest undone. Perhaps she'd just sold her soul, but everyone has a price, and Kay's was her loving adoptive family… out of her life now, for good.

The man reached out with mind and hand, both. Numbly, tears slipping out of her eyes and freezing as they fell, Tanusha Kyrano reached up a small, mittened hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Hi, guys. :) Please forgive a hasty post. On my way to fetch my Jeep from the shop. Will make edits, right quick!

 **3**

 _Tracy Island's infirmary, in the midst of heartbreak and chaos-_

It was too much to ask of a man, that he care for his wife… in the process of losing their baby… and respond to alerts from the Island sensors, the pilots and their various Birds. Moffy was trying to be strong (not crying or growing hysterical). Pale with sweat and discomfort, she'd seized his arm and half-pulled herself up off the treatment couch, panting,

"Hiram, save our child. Whatever it takes… do it. Never mind me. Save the baby."

Only, he was not a medical doctor. Not really. Just a talented engineer with a well-stocked infirmary. Able to deal with broken bones, contusions, cuts, smoke inhalation and mild burns, but this…? The two who mattered most in the world, fighting for life right in front of him? Brains was very much out of his depth, and Lord Ganesh appeared to be occupied, elsewhere. Nevertheless, he did what he could to stabilize Moffy and their tiny, struggling little one.

There were pings from Thunderbirds 2 and 3 (on approach), from Lady Penelope (in a suddenly crimson and free-falling elevator car, searching for Scott), from the submarine access tunnel (admitting a friendly) and from John Tracy, who required a code to shut off a horde of rogue nanites.

"Max," snapped the frantic engineer, as he administered fluids and a mild painkiller, "deliver that, ah… that c- code, and prioritize all r- remaining situations."

John had a system for categorizing what he referred to as "developing sh*t-storms". There was: 'Important'… ' _very_ important'… 'fricking vital', and 'right the h*ll _now'._ The astronaut's current problem sounded like Hackenbacker's; a deep level 4.

Thank all the gods and their shifting avatars, then, for Max, to whom Brains could leave everything in the world but Moffy and their tiny scrap of combined, fading life.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, coming home, near midday-_

'Tired' didn't even come close, but the palms were down, the runway lit up, and his Bird cleared to land. Gordon was back in the copilot's seat, with a "shut up" look on his tense, closed face.

Virgil kept quiet and focused on flying. Important, when you were wrung-out and weary. Still had to tell Alan, who'd already landed, but needed to get home himself, first. Taking off was easy; any fool could hit the throttle and pull back on the yoke. But it took finesse to put a Bird safely back down again, especially on a runway that unforgiving.

No crosswind this time, at least. That was a plus, and Virgil Tracy knew his Big Girl like the inside of his own hip pocket. Could have landed her blind or concussed (and _had)._ Tired? H*ll… nothing new about that, and anyhow, Emma was coming. She'd taken leave and would be there in just a few hours. That… not just sex, but someone to hold and let it all come tumbling out to… well, that meant a lot.

The Island was growing fast in his viewscreen; lush and green as a raw emerald set on gleaming blue satin. Noon was the best time of day to land. No long shadows or slanting light to confuse his aim.

Humming to himself, Virgil banked around, throttled back and then flared up a little, hearing the music of engine, metal and wind; feeling the shifting tilt of her deck as he trimmed up and came home. Took an artist to land Thunderbird 2, and that pun made him smile. Almost shared it with Gordon, but… _nah,_ the kid was still seething. Still blaming the messenger for what had happened to Scott.

The flare-up brought the volcano's heavily forested peak into his view for a few seconds, hiding the runway… but that's why God made instruments and common sense. Altimeter told him right where the ground was, and so did his own piloting skill. The lower you got, the faster you seemed to move, just because you had landmarks close at hand.

Anyhow, talking briefly with Grandma, Virgil brought Thunderbird 2 to a safe, slightly bumpy landing. Fired her steering rockets on retro-blast to slow down, as those vast hangar doors ground open. First the outer, rocky one, then the inner, steel-alloy security gate.

Blinking runway lights beckoned him into the cavernous hangar, where augmented service mechs were already scurrying to hook up her comm and fuel lines. Home, sweet home. The Bird's engine noise shifted from volcanic roar to muted rumble, as Virgil eased her through those wide-open doors.

He taxied gently within, passing from full, golden sunshine to icy-clear floodlights. Stopped at the red line, giant wheels thumping slightly against their reinforced chocks. Then, sighing, Virgil cut off the engines and hit his loudspeaker, saying,

"Passengers clear to de-plane. Thank you for flying Air Tracy."

Gordon was already up and out of his seat, but he paused a moment, looking at the weary, raven-haired pilot. Upset and exhausted, the swimmer nevertheless shrugged and muttered,

"Sorry. Didn't mean to be a butt. It's just…"

"Rough. I know."

Virgil looked up at his younger brother, turning his seat around to face him more squarely.

"But families stick together, Kiddo. That's what makes us more than just a bunch of guys pulling crazy-ass rescues."

So saying, he extended a hand and got to his feet. The sandy-blond aquanaut took the hand and clasped it, doing that complicated grip-thump-side-hug thing that said, _'love you, Bro,'_ without any actual words.

A few minutes later they'd hustled their passengers out of the Bird and into that noisy hangar. Ellie was carrying Chip, who was fast asleep with his head on her shoulder. Alan, Piper, Buddy and Zara were there on the gantry waiting to greet them, because the explorer would go no further without his wife. Nobody else present, though. A lot going on upstairs, apparently.

As Buddy strode up to kiss Ellie (being careful not to waken small Charlie) there was a muted twinkle in his eye, and something very different about his walk.

"Guess, Love of me life," he said to the smiling and nuzzling blonde. "G'wan… take a wild shot."

A bit reluctantly, Ellie shifted Chip back over to Gordon, so that she could focus on Buddy.

"No clue, Luv. What's 'appened?"

Buddy winked at her.

"Take a squizz at _this,_ Chookie!"

He was grinning like a shot fox, red cap pushed well back on his mussed brown hair. Wiggling his eyebrows at Ellie, he made a big, extravagant production of bending down to raise his right pants leg, which was full now and rolled all the way down. There, in all its glory, was a bare, hairy leg and bony-looking foot. Ellie stared for a moment, then gasped and threw herself at the suddenly whole explorer.

"Holy Dooley, Bud! It's back! Your leg's come back… but, _how?"_

Buddy spread his hands and shrugged, still grinning.

"When we winked on outta that jam in New York, I popped in on Thunderbird 3 again, with a whole bloomin' set o' legs, just like me right never got…"

Everyone listened closely, then, because Buddy really _did_ have a different story for the loss of his leg, every time.

"…bitten clean off by the elusive bunyip, out on the GAFA. And me just a nipper!"

Ellie sob-laughed and hugged him close, saying,

"Loved ya with one leg, love ya with two, Mate… don't make any difference t' me."

They paired off like a couple of budgies, then, scarcely noticing anyone else. Gordon smiled at his whispering friends, and then turned carefully, so as not to wake his young son. Charlie had barely stirred on being transferred; just mumbling something incoherent and rubbing his tousled head against Gordon's broad shoulder.

Zara came forward, next, pointing quietly up at the hangar security cameras, which had all gone stonily dark.

"If you'll let me have wee Master Charles," she whispered, "I shall whisk him upstairs to bed for his afternoon nap. Quite a full day he's had, what with paddling about at the shore and collecting shells for you. We had _such_ lovely games, and a picnic, as well," she told him, with a straight face and mischievous blue eyes.

"Poor little guy must be exhausted after all that fun," Gordon lied back, somehow keeping the smile off his face. _Did_ impulsively lean forward while transferring Chip, and kiss Zara. On the side of her face, but close enough to her full, soft mouth to make a definite statement. She blushed, ducking her head so that long, blonde hair fell forward to curtain a sudden, shy smile.

Virgil, meanwhile, had drawn Alan and Piper aside. In spare, short words, he told the kids what had happened to Scott. Al didn't react, at first, beyond turning ashen-pale.

"Are you sure?" the young pilot whispered at last, as Piper bumped up against him like a human scaffold. "I mean, couldn't he just have hit his head really hard, or something? That time when I fell off my skateboard, I was pretty shook up and seeing triple. I mean…"

Virgil folded his arms across his own broad, uniformed chest as though needing one serious hug.

"I'm sure," he said quietly. "Don't understand _why,_ is all. Scott didn't break any laws. He was only trying to _help._ Why would they do that?"

Piper stood there, earnest and gawky-tall; flower crown on her purple hair, rumpled camo field jacket thrown over her uniform. Frowning a little, she mused,

"The GDF wouldn't have any reason to zap Scott's head and then just let him go. I mean…" the girl flushed sudden scarlet, almost masking that faint kiss of freckles. "…my folks were always in trouble, on account of being, y'know…" Pip swallowed, hard. "…religious. Neo-Druids, and junk. One of my cousins got 'scraped and transported to Proxima, not released back home."

Alan put an arm around Pip's defensively hunched shoulders. Nothing he could do about the past… about her colonist family or brain-scraped cousin… but he was here _now,_ and maybe that mattered.

"See," he said to Virgil, giving his girlfriend (!) a comforting squeeze, "it doesn't make any sense, Bro! If the GDF did that, they'd have sent him away, or locked him up, or something!"

Virgil frowned. Opened his mouth to say something, about the same time that he got two pings at once on his wrist comm. One was from John: _Not Scott. Call Dad for more._ The other, from Brains, sent them all back into rescue mode, fast: _Medical emergency. Infirmary. Need help._


	4. Chapter 4

=) Thank you.

 **4**

 _Tracy Island, in the busy infirmary-_

Brains was a desperate man, and despair can make even the wildest of risks seem acceptable. Moffy, his wife, was fading fast. He could save her, but only with drugs and techniques that would certainly kill their developing child… or, so said the med-scanner. Vanessa Moffat, his dearest love, would not allow this, however. She would die, herself, rather than risk any harm to their baby… who wasn't going to survive outside the womb. Not at this early stage of her pregnancy. So, being an ersatz Tracy, he called for help.

Everyone but Josh Kelly came rushing to answer his summons. Having drawn the short straw, Josh was stuck at the desk, keeping in touch via wrist-comm. Caleb Gonzalez was missing, as well. Off in the lab somewhere, probably. At the time, that did not seem important.

Hackenbacker's brown eyes flashed over that stampede of potential assistants (those who'd allowed him to see them, at least). His gaze settled upon the smallest, least likely candidate.

Striding across the infirmary, Brains stopped before Zara, who still held young Charlie. The boy was awake now, confused by that sudden brisk scurry and lift-ride. Reaching out to touch the child's soft shoulder, Hackenbacker pled,

"Ch- Charlie, you are able to, ah… to c- cause rapid aging, are you not?"

The small boy shrank against his pretty friend. He didn't like doctors, and this one wanted him to do something bad. Something he _promised_ , never-ever, not ever to do. Doctors were bad. They hurt people. The lady was hurt, he could tell.

Charlie shook his head wildly, no. Looked around for his dad, who came over to take him from Zara.

"What is it you're trying to do, Brains?" Gordon asked, shifting the suddenly larger boy into an easier carrying hold.

"M- Moffy's contractions will expel our ch- child," Hackenbacker explained, looking terribly grieved. "I c- cannot prevent this, although I could, ah… could th- then begin treating her. I s- simply wish Ch- Charlie to age the delivered f- fetus, to a point that it may survive on its own. _Please_ , Gordon. Please h- help us."

The aquanaut's grip tightened on his son, who was still reflexively growing. Soon, he'd have to put the boy down and just clasp his shoulders or hug him. Tough situation, but Brains was frantic. So... there in that brightly-lit, machine-packed and crowded infirmary, with Professor Moffat panting faintly in the background, Gordon Tracy looked at his son and said,

"Hey, Kiddo… know how I told you to never make time speed up on somebody, unless you're in danger?"

Chip nodded, looking about seven years old now, but still with the mind and emotions of a really smart preschooler.

"Yessir. I 'member that. I been good, I promise."

Dad smiled.

"I know you have, Buddy, and I'm proud of you. Only, this time, if you make someone older, real carefully, you'll be helping them."

Confused, Charlie grew another two years or so. Gordon set the boy back on his own two feet, while Grandma produced Pip's big camo field jacket, to cover him with.

"Older's _bad_! You said so, Dad," Charlie objected stubbornly, looking from Gordon to the lady, who was crying, or something. He didn't want her to cry. Dad ruffled his hair and gave him a hug.

"It's not bad this time, Chipper. This time, it's helping. If you go with Brains and make who he shows you, older…"

But Charlie shook his head again, getting brown hair all in his not-gonna-cry brown eyes.

"I can't pick only one, Daddy," he tried to explain. "Ever'body around, they all gets old, all to _dust!_ You seen, Dad! You seen me do it! Only, I didn' mean to! I promise!"

He was crying, now, like a stupid, dumb baby! But Dad said,

"No problem, Chip. I'll get everyone else as far away as you need me to, but I'll stay close enough to come help, if something goes wrong. How 'bout that? We got a deal?"

"It's really helping, this time?" Charlie sniffled, not wanting to break a big promise and do something bad. Only… Dad wouldn't lie to him. Not ever. They were best buds, for always.

"It's helping, Chipper. Trust me. You just gotta control your power. You can do it, Kiddo. I'm here. I got you."

A few minutes later, Gordon began backing away, pausing every few steps to ask,

"Far enough?"

…and then be directed farther, even, than that. He had to just about leave the room before Charlie's scrunched-up ten-year-old face relaxed, and the boy finally nodded. Uncle Verbal was right behind Dad, and Uncle Allum, too. Nobody looked like they thought Charlie was breaking his promise, though. No one looked mad at him.

(Of course, Chip couldn't sense the Mechanic, Ilya and Katrin, but that was another matter, completely.)

Still nervous, the boy crept up to join Brains, who explained what needed to happen. Charlie was worried and upset, but he stood straight up like a Tracy and nodded, whispering,

"Yessir… I'll try."

Peeking over at the lady he was s'posed a help (Mrs. Doctor) he said,

"Don' cry, okay? You gotsa be brave when you're scared. Dad tol' me that, an' even _he_ gets scared, sometimes."

She reached a pale hand out, with tubes all in it, and touched his shoulder.

"I'll be brave," she told him. "I trust you, Chip."

See, people trusted an' loved you, at home. They didn't try to catch you an' lock you up, or make you do bad things. That's why he wanted a' stay _here,_ with Dad an' Gammaw an' Zara an' Scruff, plus Grampa an' all his uncles.

Charlie was shaking… a little… but he did what Dad always said. He kept going, anyways. Mrs. Doctor-Lady smiled at him, and Chip held her hand, so she could stop crying. Lotta stuff happened then, with shots and machines and the man yelling,

 _"Now,_ Charlie. NOW!"

Didn't see any babies, just blood… but he did what they wanted him to. For just a tiny, short, little-bit… only a second… he shoved the world violently forward. There was yelling. Somebody screamed, and a messy kid was there, not wearing no clothes. His dad tried to come back in the room, but Uncle Verbal pulled him away an' got caught in the time-push, instead.

Charlie scrunched up on the floor in a tight little ball. He was in trouble, again. He knew it. He did a bad thing, and people were mad. They were coming to get him, with doctors.

Then Dad was there, hugging him hard and saying stuff. Dad was there. No one could get him, with Dad around, 'cause… teamwork.

Elsewhere, watching the chaos through camouflaged drones, the Mechanic shook his head in disgust.

"Soft," he rumbled. "And stupid. That Dos Santos was planted here, and _still_ they don't get it."

Ilya looked up at Kane.

"Should I go kill it, Sir?" he asked his hero.

The cyborg hesitated, and then shook his head, no.

"Not at this time," he said, adding, "Even if shown _proof,_ they wouldn't believe it… and so far, we're still allies. That cur 's on a leash held by somebody else, though. Someday soon, it will turn on them. Problem for another time. We're here to deal with the shape-changers, Ilya. Remain on target."

"Yes, Kane. I will," said the boy, re-slinging his rifle.

Below, in the infirmary, Horatio was busy repairing his female, who was no longer carrying offspring. Stupid way to propagate, Kane thought. Much better to clone or simply adopt and transform. Less risky.

'Grandma' had taken over the new child; fussing, cleaning and giving it comfort. Reflexively, hardly aware that he did it, Kane placed a big, gauntleted hand on Ilya's shoulder and the top of Katrin's blonde head. No one below was a Kanni… but they hadn't all gotten back yet, either. He would wait and keep watch.

(Had Evan been ready to help, if Horatio needed it? Maybe. There might have been a drone present, disguised and able to implant life-saving circuitry, if so directed. But that never happened. Wasn't necessary.)

Unaware of all this, Grandma Tracy had just shifted gears, _hard;_ going from crisis-management mode, to senior female. Because, all at once, there was another child to care for. Not no baby, neither. A full-on, maybe six-year-old boy, with dark hair, brown eyes, and the mind of an infant. Not scared, at least. Too simple… too innocent… for that. Just needed his mamma, was all. That, an' sumthin' ta eat.

Sal got that poor young 'un cleaned up, making gentle shushing noises, as Zara sped off to the auto-chef for something like milk. Didn't have no bottles nor sippy-cups in the house. Charlie was too old ta need 'em, and no one had planned on no baby _this_ early. Well, they'd just hafta make do, like always.

She got Virgil to lift that colt-wobbly boy onto the treatment couch alongside his poor, worried mamma. Professor Moffat looked at that skinny, whimperin' fella like she was seein' th' Lord an' all his holy angels, or sumthin'.

Well… Sally had lost one, herself, all them years ago. Little John Robert, Jeffery's young brother, hadn't lived long enough to take a second breath. She'd never heard him cry, even. So… maybe she understood. Told Moffy,

"There, now, Honey. You relax an' get some rest. He's fine. Jus' hungry an' cold, is all. We'll get him all tooken care of, never you fret."

Sal glanced at Virgil as she said this, then did a fast double-take. Something had changed. Her muscular grandson looked older, somehow… as did Moffy and Brains, come to think on it. Virgil was closer to Scott's age than Gordon's, now.

"Teddy?" she whispered, uncertainly. "What happened?"

"I dunno, Grandma," he murmured back, running a hand through his wilting dark hair. "I tried to haul Gordon's ass… _butt_ … out of the room, and got nailed, instead."

Then, a sudden twinkle replaced the baffled look in his warm brown eyes.

"On the bright side, I'm older than John, now. Let's see rocket-man try to pull rank, after _this."_

Only, Grandma was too concerned to laugh at his joke.

"You feelin' alright, Teddy? It ain't still happenin', is it?"

"No, Ma'am," Virgil assured her, pulling his grandmother in for a hug and a kiss on the top of her silvery head. "I'm fine. Promise."

Over to one side, Gordon had squatted down to talk with Charlie, who was calming down, but still pretty spooked.

"I messed up, Dad? I made a mustake?" Chip whispered plaintively. ('Cause that new boy didn't look like a baby. He'd seen pictures of those. They were little, and bald, with no teeth.)

"No, Kiddo. You didn't mess up. You saved someone's life, and two people's hearts. That's a rescue, Chip. That's what we do."

Gordon gave his son a tight hug and back-pat. Then, his tone changing, the aquanaut said carefully,

"You're gonna have to look after him, you know. I mean, he's just a baby, inside. Doesn't know beans about life. He'll need lots of help to make it here, Chipper."

Charlie cocked his head, sending light brown hair cascading into his eyes. Expression gone first startled, then eager, the boy said,

"He could be like my brother! Same as you an' Uncle Allum, Dad! I could show him how to dunk chicken nidgets in ketchup, how to swim, an' make him take a bath. _Ewww!"_

"Eww!" Gordon repeated, laughing. Then, more seriously, "you have to be careful to do the right things and help him stay out of trouble, Charlie. If he sees you doing something dangerous…"

The boy's dark eyes widened. Whispering, he said,

"He might try' n copy me, Dad! He could get _hurts!"_

"Right," Gordon agreed. "That means you've got to be extra safe and smart. A good big brother for… for…" looking up and around, the swimmer asked, "What's his name, again?"

Brains… tired and happy… glanced away from his sleeping wife and young son. Still hovering close at their side. Still hardly daring to hope that they'd made it. Smiling, the engineer cleared his throat and said,

"Fermat. His name is Fermat Pascal Hackenbacker." (And Eashan Suresh Rama-Singh, as well.)

It was a glorious moment. Success, torn out of seeming ruin and loss… until three more pings came over the comm, and their transport alarm cut on; sudden and screeching-shrill.


	5. Chapter 5

Hi, there. =) Thank you, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Bow Echo, Susan, Thunderbird Shadow, Whirl Girl and Akimakel for your reviews. Stuck waiting for my Jeep, Deen, to be re-re-repaired. :/

 **5**

 _Willing himself to change what had happened; willing himself to their rescue-_

This time, Scott did not simply startle awake back in Kansas. This time, he remained fully aware. Felt himself crossing some sort of sensory barrier. _'Created reality',_ his captor had called it. Was the bastard right about that, or could there be more than one universe? Maybe one where none of their drama had happened… till now.

Crossing took no time at all, and forever. Numbed and hurt. Burned and froze. No wonder he'd always been under, for previous transits. Passing through, he thought: _Please, let me help them. Please, let them still be alive._

Then, abruptly, Scott was back home; stumbling wildly to catch his footing on shifting and splintered debris. Someone nearby was screaming and sobbing. Alan, all of six years old, trying desperately to raise part of a shattered wall.

"Hang on, Al! I'm coming!" Scott shouted, scrabbling and bounding his way across the wreck of their house and outbuildings. There was dust in the air, and a subtle green tinge to the sky, but the sun was up, so at least he could see. Would have been d*mn near useless, otherwise.

About twenty feet of hurried scrambling brought him over to Alan, whose hands were bloodied and gashed, with missing fingernails from tearing at wreckage to reach those, below.

"Number one rule, Al," he said, taking hold of the little guy's shoulders. "Stay calm. You can't help _anyone_ , if you're in a blind panic, yourself. Breathe, okay? I need you focused."

Alan managed a nod, still half-sobbing, his small face streaked with blood and dirt. Scott pulled the boy in for a quick hug, then held him away again, saying,

"Okay. I'm gonna lift this end of the drywall. It might break in half, so be ready to jump clear. Who's under there, Sprout?"

"M- Mommy," Alan whispered, dashing at sudden tears with a grubby hand. "I heard Mommy, Scott. Granddaddy, too... I think. They're down there, Scott! But I couldn'... couldn' do it."

"You're not by yourself anymore," Scott assured him. "I'm gonna pitch in, too. We can do this, Bud. I'll lift, you help me shift it over. Other end, Al… there you go… like that. On three, okay?"

Alan was in the right place, now, his small hands leaving vivid red prints on the wall. Crouching down, the boy nodded at Scott. His golden-blond hair was streaked with dust and blood, but his face was fiercely determined. Good enough.

Scott could hear the rattle and creak of settling wreckage. Below him, groans and coughing. In the distance, animal noises. Horses and cows, wild and in pain; maybe trapped, or wandering lost. He turned his attention back to Alan with an effort, because a crisis had to be solved one step at a time.

"Ready? One… two… _three!"_

Scott wasn't the family meat-wall. For sheer goliath strength, you wanted Virgil and Gordon, or John, in that suit. He was quite powerful, though, in real life. Here? Well, he'd make do, like Grandma always said.

Forced himself to lift, making his back like iron and his legs like a couple of pistons, because he was all that they had. No Bird, no equipment. Just Scott…William…d*mn… _Tracy!_

That soggy gypsum slab _did_ crack, but he and Alan got it up and off, anyhow. The little guy worked. Didn't just hang on and ride, pushing and heaving with all that he had, and then some. Together, they shifted the broken wall.

Underneath… buried in a mare's nest of boards, glass, stairwell and curtains… were Mom, Granddad and Grandma. Looked like five, maybe six feet down, balanced on piled, splintered wreckage. Dangerous to move injured people without the right gear, but that creaking, groaning debris was unstable, and they needed out, right the h*ll _now._

Someone else stumbled over. John, shirtless and barefoot, with a twisted and dangling left arm. Walking wounded, barely able to hold himself upright, but here. Alive.

"Sit down, before you fall down!" snapped Scott, more relieved than he had time to show. Only, his dumbass red-haired brother wouldn't listen. Kept on coming.

"I can help," he insisted, in a voice that was scratchy with coughing and dust.

Meanwhile, the tangle of concussed, bleeding people below them was beginning to stir, and Scott had to physically stop Alan from jumping right down after Mom.

"You want to help," he told John, forcing Alan away from the edge, "go find Kay, Gordon and Virgil. They've gotta be around here, somewhere. Get moving, Little Brother… and watch where you step. Effing nails, everywhere."

John nodded vaguely. Might've got hit on the head, or something. Whatever the case, he shambled off again, maybe just _thinking_ names, instead of calling them out.

' _One problem at a time,'_ Scott told himself. _'Work the situation.'_

Very carefully, he eased his way down into that shattered stairwell, stepping only on beams and rails that weren't perched on top of his buried family. They were only a little ways under, but it was the worst few yards that he'd ever had to cross. The slowest, too.

"We're here, guys," he told them, fighting for confidence. "It's okay, now. We got you."

Granddad was on top, sort of wrenched around sideways. He'd pulled Mom and Grandma into a sheltering hold when the house came apart and had taken most of the punishment. Now, as Scott came closer, the old man told him,

"Get… get th' ladies out first, Young'un. Y'r ma an' Sally. Get 'em out, first."

"Yessir, right away," Scott answered respectfully, inching his way down the stairs' broken spine. Hadn't been a compressed spiral staircase, before. Was, now. "Only, you're on top, Granddad. I'll have to shift you out of the way, before I can get anyone else. Everything still attached and functioning, Sir? Can you wiggle your toes?"

Granddad started to laugh, but it turned into a weak, bloody cough.

"Not sure I still _got_ any toes. Cain't see 'em, from here." Then, "That you, Alan? Stay back, Mite. Let… let y'r brother work."

He fell silent, then; bright blue eyes closing gently, once more.

"Granddad, stay with me," Scott ordered. "I need your help with the ladies, Sir. No time for sleep."

"I'm awake," said the old man. "What d'ya need me ta do, Scotty?"

"Can you…" anything. Anything at all, to keep his grandfather focused and talking. "Can you shift some of that wood off of you? Maybe try to wake Grandma and Mom for me?"

"Think so," said Grant, pushing at a splintered two-by-four. The nail-studded thing lay across his left shoulder, half pinning him.

His grandmother hadn't spoken or moved, but she seemed to be breathing. Mom, he couldn't see very well. Heard her, though.

"Scott, don't. It's too dangerous. Go… please, Boo, just _go."_

He shook his head.

"No, Ma'am. I'm not leaving you, and I know what I'm doing. Try to relax. We'll get you out of there. Promise."

' _We'_ , because John had come back, with Virgil and Rusty. The dog was limping noticeably, favoring a crudely bandaged foot. The younger boy had one hand pressed hard over a bashed-in eye… his right… but he was standing and had managed some kind of sling for John's broken arm. Out of a torn-up living room curtain, looked like. Green brocade, with gold fringe.

"Hey, Virge," Scott greeted him. "Good to see you. Think you could wrap that up, and give me a hand, here?" To John, he said, "Find Gordon and Kay, then look after the animals, Buddy. Gordon and Kayo, got it?"

After a second, John nodded.

"Got it," he replied, then shambled off like a tall, red-haired zombie. Rusty kept close beside John, trying to guard him, or something.

Virgil, meanwhile, had torn a shred off a tangled bedsheet; ripping with teeth and both hands. Alan helped him to bind the blue cloth over that oozing and ruined eye.

"We're ready," said Virgil, after the wound was tied-up. Too much adrenaline to feel pain, yet, Scott figured. Straightening, the boy called, "Mom, Granddad, Grandma, don't worry! We're coming!"

Then, they got down to work. No Birds, no equipment. Just willing and able d*mn Tracys, wounded or not.


	6. Chapter 6

Hi, you guys. I have today off for the State Fair, so I decided to dash off a few lines. Thank you, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl and Thunderbird Shadow for letting me know how it's going. I appreciate your feedback. =) Edited even more.

 **6**

 _Yokosuka, Japan, in a suddenly plummeting VIP lift-_

To her credit, Lady Penelope did not cry out nor lose her head, as first there came a very loud grinding sound, and then the lift car began to turn red and fall free. Her Ladyship's feet quite left the floor of that brass-walled and carpeted space. She could see herself reflected many times over; suspended like an astronaut in all of that warm, polished metal.

She looked a perfect fright to be honest; with undressed, loose blonde hair billowing upward like smoke, and John's borrowed jacket expanding like white wings over a stained and rent pink-chiffon gown. Worse luck, she'd mislaid an earring, somehow; one of the pearl-and-diamond studs she'd worn to her charity gala in vanished Pacifica City. At the bottom of the ocean now, most likely. Perhaps dear Gordon could be persuaded to search for the missing jewel…? (Once they'd located Scott and saved him from whatever life-threatening contretemps he'd landed in, at any rate.)

As one could hardly be expected to mount a rescue whilst falling, Penny took steps. Reflexively, she reached for her nonexistent bag, lost in Pacifica City together with all of its contents. She'd been given a chunky, oversized man's wrist-comm by Virgil, however, and with that, she'd make do. It hung loose against her slim hand, now, clanking and rubbing, irritating her sensitive skin.

No matter. Needs must. Penny tapped its screen, after twisting the face to "distress beacon" mode. Then, with gratifying rapidity, her plunging lift car flared brighter red and came to a gradual stop, between floors. An alarm howled to life, only to be ruthlessly choked moments later. Hazard averted, it seemed.

Penny settled to the blue-carpeted floor, landing with a soft _thump._ (She had consumed rather a lot at the charity banquet, Her Ladyship reflected sadly; back to nothing but water and lettuce, again.) Metal protested and squealed as that red glow faded away and a ceiling panel shifted aside, just over her head. Penny glanced upward, smoothing her garments and arranging her features to reflect calm, amused detachment.

"John, dear!" she exclaimed, watching as the tall, bedraggled young astronaut lowered himself through the panel. "How delightful to see you! Is everything quite well? Have you learnt any more about darling Scott?"

He hung one-armed from the access hatch a moment longer, then dropped inside, landing like a cat amidst polished brass, figured blue carpet and tinkling chamber music. His shirt was rumpled, and the tie slightly askew. _Typical_. Penny made a fond, exasperated noise, and then reached up to adjust him, once more.

"However _do_ you manage without one present to constantly render you acceptable, Dear Boy? And what has happened, above? Were you able to determine the whereabouts of our Scott?"

As they mightn't be private, she dared not ask more. John shrugged, shifting a loop of coiled yellow wire that he wore draped across his shoulder and chest. Perhaps he'd had to repair the lift, in order to slow its descent? If so, he'd been remarkably swift.

"Um… I usually don't wear ties… a real mess, but Lee's on top of it… and _no,_ but that's what I'm here for, Pen. We'll find him, I promise."

"Indeed."

Penelope finished adjusting that black, camera-fuzzing bowtie and then stepped away once again to inspect her handiwork. The lift had begun moving and they would shortly reach street level, where her insatiable public doubtless awaited.

"John, dear, while I am certain that your rather perplexing statement made perfect sense to _you,_ most of us are quite unaccustomed to deciphering multiple, closely-stacked replies."

He cocked his head, seeming genuinely puzzled. His red hair wanted trimming, she noticed, and he was just at that stage of incipient beard-scruff that always looked perfectly dashing on men.

"You ask me questions that way, though," John protested. "All at once, I mean. I'm just saving you time, with one really quick answer."

Penny sighed. There was no use attempting to explain. The poor lad was socially helpless, if rather stunningly attractive. (Though less so than his older brother, Scott.) Best to enjoy the view, and cease attempting to change him, she supposed.

Their VIP lift car nestled to a gentle stop and generated a soft chiming sound. Then its doors hummed open, revealing her driver and friend, Aloysius Parker. He looked (as Scott would term it) "loaded for bear". At Parker's back, behind the red-velvet VIP cordon, was a very large and boisterous crowd, and a great many swarming GDF peace officers.

"Milady!" blurted the stocky old rascal. "Y'r h-alright, then? Only, h-I 'eard y'r distress call, h-and made 'aste t' get 'ere. Th' car's waitin' outside at th' curb, Milady… Mr. John."

Penny inclined her head once, displaying a regal disinterest that would have won accolades from her most wealthy and snobbish associates.

"Yes, Parker. All is quite in order, now. It was merely a power outage of some sort, I fancy. Our John repaired the lift for me, in his own inimitable fashion… but I should quite like a bath and a change of clothing."

Parker's seamed, blue-eyed face wreathed itself in smile-wrinkles on hearing Her Ladyship's wish. A large canvas bag that he'd been holding was now brought up for inspection. Black with gold trim, bearing the subtle perfume of _'by appointment only'_ couture, the bag was packed full with half-glimpsed delights.

"h-I took th' liberty o' pickin' up a few h-odd bits an' bobs fr'm a local designer, Milady," he explained, bowing them out of the lift car. "h-Of course, h-it may all be too large, h-as y'r nowt but a wisp. Summat for Mr. John, as well." Like Penny, herself, he knew nothing at all about Jaeger's localised time antics.

Penelope smiled, taking John's arm for the inevitable camera barrage, and cuddling close.

"I am certain that whatever you've procured for us shall fit like a dream, Parker. You, erm… _did_ remember to pay for it all, did you not?"

The driver looked injured, falling into place behind Penny and John, as they stepped along into the crowded hospital lobby.

"h-Of course, Milady! What d'you take me for? h-A common thief? Th' cheque's h-in the mail, my oath on it!"

Penelope sighed yet again, then affixed a bright, fashion-model smile to her lovely face. Leaning in close, she gave John's muscular arm a slight squeeze, murmuring,

"We're in public now, Darling. Back on script, please."

He nodded, whispering back,

"Copy that… but it's the last time, Pen. After this, we're "breaking up". You found someone new, or I did. Whatever looks best in the newsfeed. Got it?"

As camera drones swooped in and out, taking thousands of pictures and videos… as reporters and fans shouted questions and greetings… Penny managed a very small answering nod.

"Understood, John Dearest… but I shall miss you, and all of our little charades."

She did not realize, as they passed grandly away through that yammering crowd, that a certain lip-reading, suspicious female newshound had just figured everything out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Meanwhile, bent nearly double in howling, bitter-cold wind-_

Trekking through the arctic wilderness was no joke; especially after the bloody d*mn ship blew up all around them. Only their armour and implants had made survival possible. Still paying the ruddy things off, they were, but that illegal tech had proven its worth many times over.

Now, as they trudged through a landscape of jumbled, booming ice, toward a lone arctic research station, Havok reached into her cracked helmet and rubbed at her ears to warm them. Promised herself one thing as she did so: that whatever else happened, she and Fuse would grind their boots in Tycho Reeves' innards and track his blood all through the hospital floors. Might send the odd shred to the Tracys, as well, just for sport.

After all, goals were what kept you alive and moving. One foot in front of the other, with visions of mayhem leading her onward.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you for reading, you guys. :)

 **7**

 _Meanwhile, somewhere entirely else-_

There in the empty transport lab, he'd set the spacetime parameters for Earth, seven hundred years in the future. Then, he'd run like heck for that big, glowing disk. Bumped something on the way and thought: _'That's gonna leave a mark.'_

Leapt up on top of the knee-high neutronium circle, as its seams began flaring with lightning-like power. Stumbled a little but made it to the center just before a hooting alarm tore the air. Then came this weird shaft of blue flame and…

…a deep, ringing bell tone sounded, so loud that he felt it right down to the roots of his teeth. A round metal door whooshed open, letting Caleb stagger out of what felt like a humming, old-fashioned telephone booth. Was expecting Earth, 700 FN ( _From Now,_ get it? Caleb made that up on his own.) What he got was a sense of huge distance crossed in space and time, both. You didn't move that far, that fast, and not feel every inch of it.

Everything came as a sudden, cold-water shock to the young traveler; plus-size gravity; thin, chilly air with a weird, sour-metallic bite; dim, reddish light, like a bad-tempered sunset on steroids. His shadow was mixed with the transport booth's, arrowing long and skinny ahead of him, seeming to point at a row of silvery, box-like buildings. (No windows or doors, but what else could they be, right? No signs, either, except for a spinning pale light on a tall metal pole, maybe ten yards away.)

That tone was still blaring. Caleb took a deep, gulping breath, wondering what he'd gotten himself into, and how much trouble he was going to be facing, back home. Took a few steps away from the booth, which stood alone in some kind of circular, force-shielded plaza.

Looking around, he saw that the ground was paved, with squares of reddish-dark soil left free, harbouring a few thin, ropey … plants? They turned to 'face' him; the shiny undersides of their leaves flashing up like schools of nervously darting fish. These, too, cast yards-long shadows, crossing here and there patches of strawberry snow.

Caleb wandered further away from that padded transport booth, and then turned around. What he saw was… wow. There was a sun in the sky like an angry red blister; big as a basketball, held at arm's length.

For real, he could see its surface boil and seethe, without hardly squinting. Saw currents, bubbles and slow-moving plasma loops. Scariest frickin' thing he'd ever encountered, no lie. The rest of the sky was a muttering, bruise-coloured purplish-red. High overhead, there were five… make that _six_ … big, full disks in different shades and sizes, like someone had launched a giant bouquet of party balloons. They moved fast, too, crossing the sky as Caleb looked on, slack-jawed and stupefied.

Then he heard yelling.

"Sir and Meester! Sir and Meester! Please! You must be to coming within!"

The dark-haired substitute aquanaut yanked his gaze away from that dim red sun with real difficulty. Like, there was a just-about-audible ripping noise. Saw three people coming at him in light environment suits, pouring from one of those silvery, box-like shelters.

They were crazy-tall and real skinny, and that made Caleb grin like a fool, 'cause maybe he'd actually done it. Maybe Kaise was here somewhere, waiting. Only one way to find out, he supposed.

"Hey guys!" he called back, waving one arm. "It's me, Kabe Zalz! Anyone seen Kaise Bek-Dotter?"

His breath misted in the dry, cold air, and his skin prickled like he'd been out on the lifeguarding stand for twelve solid hours. (Not fun; by that point, you wished they'd all sink straight to the bottom, just for a chance to plunge in, or crawl back to the shade.)

The three officers… their environment suits all had rank-stripes and smooth, barely readable badges…surrounded Caleb, hauling him into their bunched up, red-velvet shadow.

"Sir and Meester, we are receiving no warning of transport!" cried one of them, gazing at their visitor with big blue eyes and a worried expression. "You are having no protection, here! We must to hurry inside, at once! There is being a flare-storm!"

They'd been moving the entire time. Somebody triggered a hidden door, by pressing a belt-stud. Then, like a very fast rugby scrum, they rushed him inside of the nearest building; twittering shock and concern.

There, well… Caleb wasn't sure what he'd expected, but industrial-grey, half underground dwellings weren't it. See, those shelters were only the surface. Inside and below lay a whole grid-work of streets and square, windowless buildings. A few quiet electrical cars hummed past them on hurry-up business, but not very many. The light here was pale and fluorescent, rather than red.

There were people around, too, but Caleb could not see their faces, and they sure weren't noticing _him._ Everyone but the security team was wearing some kind of wraparound headset, like gamer-gear. He'd have looked closer, but his rescue squad hustled Caleb further into the city, which seemed gloomy, dismal and eerily quiet.

"Hey, guys… where are we?" he asked them, drawing a trio of startled looks. "I mean, sorry to use your transport-booth without asking. If there's a fare or something, I'll figure out how to pay it… but I don't think we're where I wanted to go. This, uh… this isn't Earth, is it?"

Caleb could tell, because their long limbs pulled heavy-world hard, and because of that swollen red sun. See, Mr. Brain had improved Dr. Reeves' transport design, adding a fail-safe to stop people from ending up somewhere deadly, like New York, or deep space. Instead, they'd get bounced to the nearest free stepping disk. He knew all about those, having been out to Kaise's once-ago timeline.

"No, Sir and Meester," said the officers' spokesman. "We are to thinking you come here from Airth. This is to being the Proxima B East Pole detention centre. You are not being here to inspect, Sir and Meester? It is being a very long wait since last contact."

 _'Aw, crap!'_ thought Caleb, wondering whether to hit his shiny-bright wrist comm. _'What's gone wrong,_ _this_ _time?'_

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _On the tarmac, taxiing over a small, east-facing airstrip-_

They took off on time, after their baggage was loaded aboard, and they'd gotten clearance from Pacific West Tower. The mail plane was a Foster light shuttle, based in Hawaii, but roaming wherever its pilot was minded to go. Built to save fuel, the plane was able to just reach suborbital heights, if pushed.

From Honolulu to Tracy Island, forty-five minutes; packed in there with food supplies, med-gear, biodroid pellets and everyone's online purchases. There was a free seat up by the pilot, which the two young officers avoided. Emma, because she'd rather hang out with O'Bannon; Ridley, because she hated watching someone else fly. They _never_ did the job right, except maybe Tracy.

Instead, Ridley and Emma sat in back with the cargo, catching up and making wild plans for vacation.

"We'll take them someplace completely out of comm-reach, and then…"

"Where's that?" Cut in Emma, interrupting her auburn-haired friend. "The top of Mt. Everest? Down in that ancient bomb-shelter city? The Asteroid Palace? Ree… _everywhere 's_ in touch, nowadays. Even the bottom of the sea has GDF comm posts."

Ridley sighed, glancing idly out of the cabin window at nothing but ocean and sky.

"Back in the day," she mused, over droning engines and thumping turbulence. "People could actually get away from it all. You could be alone and just _think,_ if you wanted to. Could… y'know… read a book or take a walk in the woods, and know you were the only person for hundreds of miles, in any direction, at all. Like flying, without all the comm-chatter."

Kraft shook her head, smiling a little.

"Careful, Ree," she joked. "The Unity crew 'll come get you, if they hear stuff like that. Silent reading and solo hikes are too 'individual'. If you can't do it together, on the net…"

"…Then it's probably harmful to public well-being. I know," Ridley concluded miserably. "But, Em… For thousands of years, people had lives that weren't always out there on public display! They went off by themselves and thought what they wanted to!"

Emma reached over to place a warm hand on the unhappy space captain's arm.

"I know, and I'm not saying that's wrong. Just that it could get you rounded up for questioning and maybe demoted, if the wrong people hear you talking like that." Then, just speculating, Emma said, "Maybe the Luddite Preserve? They rough it out there, 'cause they have to. Some people head out that way on vacation, to get back in touch with the simple life. Taz likes to camp, I think. Have to ask him ab… whoops. Hang on, he's texting me."

Ridley O'Bannon watched Emma dig for her phone, then returned to looking outside. Was it so awful, wanting a little privacy? A chance to be all alone with your thoughts?

Sometimes, visiting Tracy out on his station, she could drift down to the ring while he was at work. Then, having chased off that wretched chat-bot of his, she could just lie there, looking at Earth from above. Thinking, well… not much of anything.

Global-1 was so _crowded;_ noisy and bustling, with bits of it constantly shorting out or falling apart. Not the plum post she'd always longed for; not Mars or the Asteroid Belt… But, then again, she'd never have met John Tracy, if it hadn't been for that rattletrap station, and Eden.

"Okay… what the unholy F!" Emma demanded, yanking Ridley right back out of her reverie. "He just asked if I like older men!"

Ridley snorted with poorly suppressed laughter.

"Maybe he wants to set you up with the Colonel, or that crazy uncle of theirs, the one who gets everyone's name wrong," she suggested, grinning. Then, "What does he call you?"

"Evelyn," Kraft grunted, reaching up and around to refasten a hank of escaping, brownish-blonde hair.

"I'm Regina," confessed O'Bannon, whose braid was always perfect. Came of spending so much time in a helmet and snoopy cap. "But he's gotta be making that sh*t up. _No one_ could be that confused, and still fly for International Rescue."

Only, her friend had stopped listening.

"Not setting me up with anybody, if he knows what's good for him," Emma scowled, shaking her innocent phone as if it were Virgil. "But he won't tell me what's going on, either. Just says there've been a few changes, and I'll find out when I get there. Dammit! I hate mysteries! What about yours, Ree?" Emma looked suddenly up at O'Bannon, her green eyes gone narrow and fierce. "Can you get an update from Spy-guy? Maybe _he_ knows what the h*ll Taz is talking about!"

Ridley considered. Last time she'd heard from Tracy, he'd been at a Japanese hospital, escorting _'her'_ to visit a friend. He'd let O'Bannon know that there'd been few issues, but everything was fine. He hadn't got badly hurt. Though, knowing Tracy…

O'Bannon shook her head.

"He's in Japan, Em. If it's a recent development, he's probably further out of the loop than we are."

Wanted to ask about 'S', their almost brother-in-law, but not with the mail pilot right there and possibly listening. She'd said too much, already. Decided to message Tracy, though, just in case.

 _'Afternoon, Cpt.'_ She sent, on their private comm line. He'd been promoted after preventing some kind of massive meteor-strike, along with his brothers and crazy-ass uncle. _'You still up for a visit?'_

Got back, very quickly,

 _'Yes. Busy. Love. C soon.'_

Ridley felt a sudden warm rush in the pit of her stomach and heart. _Love._ He'd said it, again. Did he mean it? Was that business with Lady Penelope really an act? On the Island, Penny was all over Scott, but she looked just the same way on camera, with Tracy.

Whatever… Ridley was too proud to ask or admit that it bothered her. Only Emma knew how she felt, and had offered to carve steaks and chops from her possibly wandering astronaut. An old-fashioned suggestion.

In the true spirit of Unity, no one was supposed to be completely exclusive with a partner. For mental and societal health, you were expected to, erm… put it about, some. Only, Ree didn't want to.

Well, she decided, as their plane flew into a darkening, bumpier sky, she'd just be straight with him. Tapped out,

 _'Big talk, Cpt. Get back here & prove it.'_

Emma Kraft had been watching her friend's swift-flitting expressions. Now, she said,

"I know a bunch of Marines who could probably break him in half… If, y'know, he was drunk, and they ganged up ten to one."

"Twenty," Ridley corrected, starting to grin, and putting her phone away. "It would take at least twenty Marine-Recon beasts to take Tracy down."

Kraft shook her head in mock sympathy.

"That few? He's been sick, lately? I wouldn't pit less that fifty, on Taz."

Then, feeling completely ridiculous, both women burst into laughter; romantic troubles and "older men" forgotten. There was nothing you couldn't face, with a solid best friend at your side. Even life with the Tracys.


	8. Chapter 8

'Allo, again!

 **8**

 _In no time at all, in a bottled Kansas of shadows and dreams-_

The day had dawned greenish and overcast, with a petulant, gusty wind still gnawing the bones of their house and outbuildings. The smell was of splintering pine, wet dirt and brick-dust, but Scott barely noticed. He was too busy feeling his way down into a space in the rubble. A tiny oasis formed of snapped boards, broken walls and piled brick, pierced through by a twisted, smashed staircase.

Little oddments of normal life stood out here and there, from the wreckage. Kayo's favourite doll, one of John's sodden baseball cleats and a dented old pan from the kitchen. Mostly, though, the place was a jumbled and shattered mess, with his mom and grandparents still trapped way down in the midst of it.

Yeah. Scott Tracy might have _looked_ seventeen, but his mind was around twenty-eight. He was an experienced leader and rescue technician and… like he'd told Mom… he knew exactly what he was doing.

Cautiously, he inched his way lower, step by slithering step. There was a blue nylon clothesline made fast at his waist, now; something that Virgil and Alan had scavenged, then wound around some of the more stable-seeming debris.

See, there was a basement below them. Thirty more feet for that junk to collapse, if the wreck of their house gave up completely. Scott had to be careful. Go slow.

Overhead, framed by jagged rubble, silhouetted against a green, sullen sky, Virgil and Alan played out the line, talking to Granddad and Mom. Not to Grandma, though. (She hadn't awakened yet, that was all. Just unconscious. Grandma was going to be fine.)

Scott listened and felt to the ends of his nerves. Not minding his family, but the wood, bricks and drywall he stood upon. Granddad had always said that a dog, a horse, a machine or a building 'll talk to you, if you know how to listen. They'll tell you what's wrong, and where not to go.

Scott was sure as h*ll listening, now. Blue eyes half-closed, he sensed the tension of stressed, precariously balanced wreckage; the slip and sudden shift of a broken bedstead; the _snik-crack_ of picture-frame glass, when his foot came down the wrong way. All around the young man, wood groaned aloud, and bricks clattered. That dangerous wreckage continued to settle, but Scott wouldn't quit.

His bare feet and toes curled a bit, doing their best to grip tight, collecting dozens of sharp slivers in the process. His mother was silent, not wanting to distract him. Scott bit his lip and kept moving.

Inch, pause, listen hard, shuffle… over and over again, as Alan talked to the victims, and Virgil paid out their straining clothesline. Almost there, making his way down a creaking, bent stair-rail. Then came the sound that he'd dreaded: a loud and shuddering moan. Somewhere down below, something vital was about to give way.

"Scott, _hurry!"_ His young brothers shrieked, adding, "John! John, we need help! JOHN!"

He felt the debris giving way underneath his bare feet, sagging down for the probably flooded cellar. In real life, he'd lost Mom when he was just a kid. Not here. Not this time.

Scott ground his teeth, preparing to jump and grab them all, somehow. _Please, please… not_ _again!_ Not when he was right there, old enough to save them. Scott kicked off the stair-rail, trusting himself to a blue-nylon cord, Virgil's strength at belaying, and his own Boy Scout knot-tying skills. Might have muttered a prayer, too, but mostly just white-hot-blank didn't think. No time to do more than yell,

" _GRANDDAD!"_

Grant Tracy should've been reaching up for his outstretched arm. Instead, as if reading Scott's mind, the old man wrenched himself 'round, dragging Mom out from under him. Frickin' _threw_ her. Swinging wildly, Scott caught hold of his soaring mother. Pulled her close, just as the wreckage collapsed entirely, folding in half with a noise like felled timber and rushing stone.

Scott wrapped himself around Mom, because bricks, glass and boards were crashing down all around them. He got hit stunning-hard but stayed conscious and wouldn't let go.

Maybe Virgil and Alan alone couldn't have hauled up that wound-around lifeline. They could with John's help, though, one-armed, or not. Their tall brother had come stumbling back at their call, bringing Gordon and Rusty. No picnic at that end, either, as the rubble crumbled away underfoot like quicksand, not letting them brace right.

Scott and his mother got heaved up and out, dragged through a birth-canal of splinters, mortar and glass. Scott didn't know he was crying. Didn't recognize that hoarse, wracking sob as his own voice.

Everyone… John, Virgil, Gordon and Alan… helped Scott and Lucy off of that shuddering heap of debris; half-carrying, half-dragging them to safety. Even Rusty had sunk his teeth into cloth, pulling with all that he had. Then…

…maybe it was sheer emotion, or force of will. Whatever. Scott woke up with a sudden, head-cracking jolt. Came back to himself not in Kansas, or somebody's fantasy office, but the chilly confines of a life-support tube. Hit his head trying to sit up, there in the red-lit and buzzing darkness.

 _That_ nearly set off a panic attack, because he could almost recall being trapped in one of those things for many long years, only just not quite dead. Now… yeah. He got that sobbing under control, pushing the dreamworld folks out of his thoughts for a while. Scrabbled at the inside of the metal tube, which hissed open at last, when he pressed the right switch. A blinking red status light had been shining into his slightly blurred eyes. Out of drugs, low power, or something. It cut off when the tube opened wide, though.

Ready to fight, maybe _wanting_ it, he got himself up and off of the life-support couch. Found himself cold, mother-naked, hungry, thirsty, and furious. Refusing to lean for support, Scott ripped needles and tubes out of his chilly flesh by the dozens. He was in some kind of windowless, bare-walled room, with the sounds of collapse up above him, somewhere. Had his 'dream' echoed reality? Food for thought, at a less worrisome time.

The wary pilot looked around for other occupants, or anything he could use as a weapon or clothing. Found somebody's too-short, narrow lab coat draped over a plastic chair. He tied it around his waist like Tarzan, still very thirsty and breathing hard. No one else in the place, and only one door. Mom, his family… they weren't here. Never had been.

Except, behind the life-support tube was a bank of machinery. "Created reality" gear, maybe? Lying carelessly atop it were his deactivated wrist comm and cable gun, along with the holographic GDF dog-tags that he and John still wore. Had to. Inactive Reserve didn't mean free.

Should've just picked up his crap and got out, but first, Scott fished around and pulled something out of that beeping and humming mechanism. Maybe nothing. Maybe a world.

Then, squaring broad, bare shoulders and raising his head, Scott Tracy turned and made for the door... and God help whatever got in his way.


	9. Chapter 9

Hi, there! :) Thank you for reading. We all know I don't own them, though they lounge around in my head a lot; booted feet carelessly propped on the mental furniture. Thanks, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Creative Girl, Akimakel, Thunderbird Shadow and Susan, for your reviews.

 **9**

 _Yokosuka Navy-Town Hospital, Main Public Reception Area-_

Trouble higher up in the building meant that the lower floors were unsafe and needed to be evacuated (guide cats had appeared, and code: _easy victor_ had been declared, more than once). But, try telling all that to a mob of surging, calling, adoring young fans and avid reporters.

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward was a top-tier celebrity, known the world over for her startling beauty, wit, fashion sense and movie roles. Having heard that she'd come to their hospital to visit and cheer the sick, folk had shown up in droves for a glimpse, a shared selfie, or simply the touch of her hand.

The tall, handsome redhead beside her made it all the more glamourous; especially with their beloved "Lady P" wearing his borrowed white evening jacket. They made such a stunningly attractive couple, that the local Peace Officers were having no luck at all with dispersing that star-struck throng.

A nightmare situation for John Tracy, who did not enjoy crowds or publicity. When in IR uniform, strapped into his exopod and high in the air, he could order people to leave a dangerous area, getting Eos or Jaeger to provide a little incentive. As Penelope's dashing "mystery man", not so much.

"Good people," Pen told them all, raising her voice very slightly (like her brother, Clarence, she had the gift of volume without stridency). "Please make way, and allow the emergency crews to perform their vital duties. I shall schedule a benefit reception and gala here in two weeks' time, I promise you."

This ploy might have worked. At least, the struggling Peace Officers appeared grateful for the assist. Only then, an aggressive female reporter shoved her way through the crowd, silver camera drone buzzing hornet-like over her head. Kat Cavanaugh.

"Lady Penelope!" she barked, dodging those GDF guards and security drones, both. "Isn't it true that your relationship with this man is a complete sham, made up to increase attendance at your so-called 'charity functions'? Aren't you really here for somebody else?"

Blue-eyed and brunette, Cavanaugh was a ruthless and quick-witted predator, prone to maliciously twisting the facts for a better story. International Rescue had felt her sting a few times before. Always false, rarely actionable, never forgotten, even after public retraction.

Penelope's head lifted on her slim, graceful neck. With one earring lost, innocently tumbled blonde hair and a torn pink gown, she seemed fragile and delicate… but wasn't.

"Madame," she said, keeping her tone earnest and civil, "these people have just been through a terrible ordeal. Surely, your broadcast could focus upon the genuine need and suffering here in Yokosuka, following a dreadful attack by the Chaos Crew. At a time such as this one, mere gossip-mongering feels rather petty, does it not?"

Penelope's large blue eyes had widened still further, giving her the look of a gentle child being picked upon by a heartless bully. Cavanaugh chuckled, feeling the crowd's mood shift from surprise to anger.

"Nice move, Miss Ward," she whispered, still smiling like a hungry and circling shark. "Way to switch the tone without answering a single d*mn question." Then, turning to strike at John like a serpent or mutant plant, she snarled,

"What about you, Boy-Toy? If you're really her lover, what color are Her Ladyship's bedsheets? What's her favourite perfume? Where did you go on your first date? Which side of the bed does she prefer? Who's on top?"

A grey-haired and broad-shouldered figure pushed through the crowd toward them, carrying something that wriggled and yipped.

"'Ere! That'll be about enough o' that, Miss!" Parker interrupted, having just returned from claiming Sherbert (left at the desk with an ecstatic young clerk). He would have come between that venomous harpy and her latest victim, but the astronaut shook him off.

"First," John grated, somehow keeping his temper in check. "My name is 'John', not 'Boy-Toy'. Second: none of your Goddam business, something flowery, the park, and everything else is private. Piss off."

Sherbert squirmed his way from Parker's hold to Penny's. Ears back, teeth showing in his black little pug-mask, Bertie growled ferociously. He'd somehow acquired a small bell and gold cat image for his collar, but was all pint-sized attack dog, even so.

"Dearest ones," Penelope murmured, soothing all three males at once with voice and gentle contact, "such a gadfly is not worth troubling yourselves over. Let us instead aid our heroic Global Defense Forces in safely evacuating this damaged edifice."

"Touché," murmured Kat, as the crowd and emergency crews parted them, once more. "But this isn't over, 'Penny'. Not by a long shot."

A lot of things happened next, of which the major developments were Lee and Rigby coming out through the stairwell doors with the VIP suite staff and Doctor Shiro… at which point the ground floor sprinkler system flared bright red and cut on. Then Scott (naked as the day he was born, except for his dog-tags and a strategically wrapped lab coat) forced his way out of a locked door marked: **CUSTODIAL**. Broke the lock to stumble right into that crowded main hall.

His sudden appearance revealed all, in more than one sense. Penny's shocked gasp and slight scream, her frantic plunge through that sodden crowd… the way she hurled herself at the muscular, squinting fighter pilot… answered Kat's question clear as day.

Cavanaugh might have had a word with the publicly jilted "ex-boyfriend", except that he wasn't too far behind Penny, himself. For that matter, neither were Parker, Rigby and Lee Taylor.

"Darling!" the young noblewoman cried out, embracing Scott in the midst of hissing mechanical rain. Rather unfortunate, as his sopping-wet lab coat had started to slip. "Is it actually you? Can you truly be here, safe and well?"

She was crying and laughing, together; hardly daring to believe that the man she loved had somehow come back. Didn't notice Cavanaugh's drone, running silent, just overhead.

"What?!" Scott demanded loudly, peering at his not-quite-fiancée as though he were terribly near-sighted, as well as partially deaf. "Penny?! Where are we? Where's everyone else? How'd you get here? Last thing I remember is… well… I _don't_ really remember. I was out on the deck, I think. There was an alert, and…"

And he'd awakened in Kansas, under very different circumstances. Had found his family whole and together, in a world that had never known this one's troubles… until _he_ showed up. Then, Scott had faced tornado, destruction, rescue, loss and awakening, in some kind of buzzing life-support tube.

Breaking free, he'd spent a solid hour wandering through a twisting underground complex. Had at last gotten his wrist-comm to flicker awake. Then a weird red glow had shown up, leading him to a set of stairs and that cluttered d*mn broom closet. He'd met no guards or resistance on his way, for some reason. At least, none that weren't hunkered there, frozen like statues. Weird enough, but some of those figures had seemed to be… _changing._ Caught halfway between one form and another, or something. Hard to tell, with his eyesight as bad as it was.

Now, this: crowds of people, Penny, Sherbert and lots of bucketing water. Then John, too; yanking off his white shirt to provide his older brother with a little more cover. (And _that_ was a picture that dominated the news feeds for weeks, under the headline: _Half-Naked Hunks battle for fabled Beauty! Building collapse no bar to Open Relationship!)_

All in all, a h*ll of a day in Yokosuka.


	10. Chapter 10

Hi, there. Thank you. :) Will edit soon, and respond to reviews. Heading for Oklahoma, this weekend, for my niece's military graduation. Squeeee...!

 **10**

 _Yokosuka, Japan, minutes later-_

They were all of them battered, exhausted and emotionally drained, but the mission continued, for now there were a thousand-plus patients and hundreds of medical personnel to safely evacuate. Mostly the GDF's lookout, but International Rescue helped out where they could, after halting the spread of all those rapacious recycling nanites.

Lady Penelope's world-wide fame and instant recognition factor made her a natural to exhort, encourage and keep people moving. Captain Rigby and Lee Taylor were still in pretty good shape; physically capable of assisting with jammed treatment beds and confused, boisterous patients. On the brighter side, the sprinkler system had shut down, so at least they were drying off.

Scott had managed to find a brown custodian's coverall that he could pull on like a pair of tight pants and tie at his waist by the too-short sleeves. Not perfect, but at least he was more or less decent, if barefoot. After Doctor Hiro's rapid exam, he held John back, needing information; starting with where the h*ll he was, _now._

Maybe because of his recent, painful Kansas-B experience, he couldn't help noticing John's unusual movements. His astronaut brother was fully ambidextrous but tended to favour the left. Now, though, he was using only his right.

"What's wrong with your arm, Little Brother?" Scott asked, squinting hard and leaning closer to the shirtless and wire-wrapped spaceman.

"Um…" John hedged, wondering where to begin. Seriously needed a bonfire at the beach, and a beer in his hand, for all this. "Well, we heard that Kayo found you and brought you _here…"_

"To a hospital? Why?" And why in a life-support tube? In his mind, the pilot had gone straight from lunch on the patio deck to sudden alert, to the situation in Kansas-B.

"See, you were… okay… I'll make this fast, Scott. Stay with me; it gets complicated. The Chaos Crew attacked Dr. Reeves' transport disk demonstration, just as he was sending Buddy and Ellie Pendergast down to Pacifica City. Their assault triggered an unscheduled earthquake, causing the disk to malfunction. Buddy and Ellie never arrived in Pacifica City, but an ass-load of seawater _did,_ along with most of a very dead shark. With me, so far?"

Scott nodded, still not sure why his brother's arm wasn't working. Same one he'd broken in Kansas-B, which couldn't have been a coincidence… could it? John moved away to hold a door, or something, and then came back, raising his voice to be heard over public instructions and hurrying people.

"Right. So, Penny and I were down in the city ballroom, doing the publicity-stunt thing…" his tone of voice spoke volumes, right then. "And we got flooded with seawater. Hatches sealed, city listing badly, etc. Meanwhile, you took off in Thunderbird 1 with Captain Rigby, to handle the Chaos Crew, here in Japan, at the Kyoto Spaceport Tower end."

Japan? Well, that explained all of those polite, slim, dark-haired people and holographic guide-cats. They continued into the hospital proper as they spoke; John guiding his brother, when Scott was about to trip over equipment carts, or bump into racing medics. He was close to legally blind, John figured. For himself, he had a bit of tingling now in the fingertips of that arm (and anyplace else touched by his coiled electrical wiring lasso). Still couldn't move the lump of useless d*mn dangling meat, though. On the other hand, they were 4-F according to Doctor Shiro and Rigby: completely unfit for GDF duty.

"Got it so far," Scott told him. "What happened next? I got kidnapped, or something?"

They paused talking to help get an elderly couple and their frightened grandchild through the crowded exit, to safety. Ran interference like a couple of linebackers, basically. It was early evening, out there, and drizzling lightly, but emergency crews were already setting up tents. Then, after many thanks and a tight hug from the little boy, they went back inside, where John picked up the thread of his narrative.

"According to Rigby, you guys arrived to find the Tower damaged, but mostly evacuated, with Havok and Fuse busy disassembling the transport disk, and Reeves passed out unconscious. You fought the good fight, but then Havok threw a screamer-bomb, and that's when we lost track of you. Meanwhile, Virgil came back from his shopping trip with Grandma…"

"Did he pick up my protein shakes and barbecue sauce?" Scott interrupted, adding, "That way, Sir. South exit's less crowded. You're very welcome," when someone big and blurry stopped them to ask for directions.

"Dunno what they had time to buy before the alert," John resumed, carefully steering his half-blind older brother. "Hopefully beer and pizza… but Reeves got nailed pretty bad by the screamer, while Rigby recovered, thanks to his 'guest'."

"Uh-huh."

Explained why it was so hard to see and hear. John had to practically shout at him.

"Then what?"

"Well, Virgil picked Gordon up at home, and they took off for the Pacifica City danger zone. Um… Penny, Parker and me got everyone we could find out of the water and onto the false ceiling scaffolding, only Parker was too cold to climb up, so I went back down after him. Got him pushed up to safety, only… well… there was this flash of green light and, um… I got transported right the h*ll out of the city."

Scott's heavy dark brows lifted high in surprise.

"The transport disk works underwater?" he asked.

"Sure looked that way, to me. Anyhow, I turned up, um, somewhere _else._ Site B." Their boyish code name for an old cave system they'd been told to keep clear of, back home at the ranch. Too dangerous, and just right for secret club meetings.

" _Ohhh_." Couldn't see John's face very well but figured that the astronaut was euphemizing. Meaning someplace else he wasn't officially supposed to be messing. "Got it. Go on."

"So, Buddy and Ellie were already there… stuff _happened…_ I lost my arm, got it back, then transported with, um… a friend's help... to Pacifica City in time to find Penny and them. Kayo was on her way to Japan by that time. She hooked up with Rigby to get help for Dr. Reeves and then go looking for _you._ They got a clue from a Tower security bot, about some kind of fortress. Does that make any sense?"

Scott stopped walking in the middle of a waiting room furniture group. He saw vending machine lights beckon seductively, and suddenly wanted peach tea, or a soda. Still thirsty.

"I dunno, John," he muttered, heading for a bright green-and-white drink machine. "I woke up in a life-support tube, which I got out of after, well…. I'll need time and beer to tell you what happened, Little Brother… but you were there. _Everyone_ was, even Granddad and Mom… and you hurt your arm over there, too. Same one, even."

Scott waved his needle-tracked hand at the vending machine and made a selection, after peering real close. The drink dispenser read his biometrics and accessed the pilot's account, deducting three credits for anything wet that hadn't come from the ceiling. Some kind of fruit soda. Too sweet, but he chugged it down, anyhow, and then bought another. Sort of held his breath after that, because if he stayed thirsty, then maybe he hadn't got out of that nightmare, at all.

But no, that second flood of glorious wetness did the trick. Drank the rest so fast that he belched aloud.

"Excuse me. I was pretty thirsty, is all. Hungry, too… but I can wait."

Said John, almost casually,

"Looking forward to some more of Grandma's ketchup casserole, Scott?"

The pilot looked around for eavesdropping news drones. Checked his staticky wrist comm to be sure the d*mn thing wasn't transmitting. Then,

"Are you crazy?" he hissed. "That stuff's poison! She took _ketchup,_ for God's sake… nature's perfect food… and turned it into bread-pudding goo, with brown rice, carrots and tuna on top!"

Then, catching on, Scott laughed. Leaned forward to seize and roughly embrace his younger brother, who was actually, definitely _here,_ and utterly John.

"Had to be sure, huh, Buddy?" he joke-asked.

"Something like that," John admitted, pulling away. "It's been a long… h*ll, two days? Three?"

"Who's keeping score?" Scott grunted, disposing of his empty bottles, or trying to. Missed the rubbish bin and had to pick them up off the floor. He could hear the calm, soft music of Penny's voice giving instructions over the hospital intercom. Couldn't make out any words, though. Said John, changing the subject,

"So… you were here in the hospital, all along? See, at the 'fortress', Nijo Palace, Kayo got separated from Rigby, then called in to say that she'd found you, only… um… you'd been brain-scraped. Penny and I came here, because that's where Kay and Rigby brought _their_ 'Scott'. We were talking to him, when Lee got a message from Dad about fakes or substitutes. After that, the VIP suite sort of… exploded. Kayo's gone, too, which makes me think you weren't the only one captured. Gotta come up with a plan to find her, too. And that's about it, Scott. All that I know. You were in the hospital basement, or something?" Because maybe, Kay was still down there, somewhere.

Scott pondered, as he lowered himself into a cushioned blue waiting room chair.

"No…" he mused. "I don't think so, John. I spent a long time feeling my way through a network of… tunnels, or something. Was loaded for Goddam bear, at first. Ready to fight… only I didn't have to, because no one tried stopping me. I ran into some people, but I mean that literally; they were obstacles, frozen like statues, once the air got thick and I started having a hard time breathing."

Jaeger, most likely; speeding Scott up, relative to everything else. His 'hour' might have been most of a day, subjectively.

"When did that happen?" John asked.

"Uh… after my wrist-comm came halfway back on. Static, only, and some kind of handy red guide-light. There were definitely tunnels, though."

"Sh*t," John muttered. "Must be some kind of catacomb system under the city. Old bomb shelters, or something. I'll get Eos to… F*ck."

"What?" Scott prodded, levering himself back up and out of his seat. People were coming.

"Eos is… temporarily out of service. Hang on, I'll see if Jaeger can build something for me, back in one of the labs."

And with that, the tall, redhaired astronaut turned his attention back to his own comm unit, stepping slightly away from Scott. A small herd of tittering teenaged girls was approaching, and he needed some privacy.

In the meantime, communicating via crystal-net, Nikorr Kyrano leaned away from the holograph cylinder. Freezing the video feed, he indicated that coiled yellow electrical wire and said,

"You would do better to place smaller, less obvious agents, Lord Hiro."

The shape-changer was present in image only, but reacted as though he were right there beside Niko; turning to face the younger man.

"Impatience leads to failure, Lord Kyrano, as we have witnessed. Those Kanni capable of very small shapes are also quite immature. They do not possess much 'common sense', as the Typicals phrase it."

He shifted forms smoothly. Never five seconds together in the same shape; often an unsettling blend of several.

"The quarter-breeds were not taken in by a false pilot or Tanusha, so my agents shall indeed be carried to the island in a less conspicuous form. To rush this process is to risk revealing our movements."

Nikorr's green eyes went blazingly narrow. He could have doused the other Lord's mind, had he chosen to… but the accord restrained him.

"We had an agreement, Lord Hiro," he snapped. "You would receive genetic material for valuable new shapes along with half of the Birds, in return for Tanusha…"

"Whom you have received," Hiro cut in, mostly great, shaggy bear, at the moment.

"… _and_ the Mechanic, Evan Kane, dead or incapacitated and delivered alive. I'm _waiting,_ Milord."

The Bear's leathery nostrils flared. It rose to a swaying upright stance, small, piggy eyes beginning to glow.

"Your tone is offensive, young psion," Hiro rumbled. "And your foolish haste will cost us all, if not curbed. Kane will fall, as will the quarter-breed Tracys and those who trusted them. Apologize, or I withdraw."

Niko blinked, there in his Antarctic cavern. Scores of psionic energy dampening spiders skittered about on his chest and shoulders, consuming a vicious flare of sudden emotion. Then, clenching his black-gloved fists, the Kyrano bowed slightly.

"Lord Hiro, kindly accept the apology offered by this young and imprudent ally. This one misspoke and regrets the unfortunate tone of its words."

"Forgiven," grunted the Bear, relaxing just a bit.

Sometimes one had to lower oneself, to achieve an important result. There was too much at stake to risk insulting his partner… and he could always force that apology back at a later time, with Tanusha there at his side.

Back in the hospital, meanwhile, John switched off his wrist comm and turned back around.

"Doesn't make sense, Scott," he mused. "If what you told me about that tunnel network is true… not doubting you, but you're partially blind; could've been going around in circles for an hour, till Jaeger caught up with you… if it's true, then whoever captured you 's got the run of underground Yokosuka and Kyoto, both. They know this place and should've tracked you right down again."

Scott looked around to peer at the blurred oval, dotted with sea-green, that was his brother's face.

"You think they just let me go?" he asked. "Why? What would they gain by asking a lot of d*mn questions, putting me through an alternate-past situation, then turning me right back loose?"

John shrugged.

"Not sure, but I think we need to call Dad, as soon as we're out of here with Kayo."

Like Scott, he tried to pull himself back into some semblance of order, before that horde of young females descended. Figured he looked like crap. Shirtless, with an image-blurring bow-tie, GDF dog-tags and a tattooed black ' **5** ' high up on his left pectoral, beside that still useless arm. Well, at least the dress pants and polished black shoes looked good, and that coil of wire covered _some_ of him. Scott was equally tattooed and bare, but less self-conscious about it.

One of the uniformed girls, apparently elected as spokesfemale, scurried up to the half-naked Tracys. Giggling and ducking in many swift, birdlike bows, she said,

"Honored Sirs, if we may, for our school website, may we ask please for a holo with you? It would delight many hearts, from such generosity as yours!"

Well… sure. Why not? Public relations was part of their job, too, right? And no one would see John's face. So, the group shot was quickly arranged and taken, on…

"Ichi… ni… _san!"_

…which was the old Japanese counting formula (still in use, no matter _what_ WorldGov had to say about it).

One of the schoolgirls was daring enough to tip-toe up and kiss both of their unshaven cheeks; covering her face and giggling with delighted horror at her own boldness. Then, the short-skirted imps scampered off, leaving Scott and John with small, stuffed school mementos. These they soon tucked away and forgot, precisely as intended.


	11. Chapter 11

Hi, guys! :) Might be out of touch for a bit, because I bought bargain-basement, like, strapped-to-the-wing plane tickets. No carry-on baggage allowed. But, hey... adventure and family calls! Thank you for your kind reviews and for your patience with a quite convoluted tale. Hugs!

 **11**

 _Proxima B, at the ancient East Pole Detention Centre-_

Caleb Gonzalez had that gnawing crunch in his gut that not only had he done something wrong, but that he wouldn't even get what he'd aimed for out of it. Well… at least, not without a lot of help and quick thinking. Like Mrs. Tracy always said, _"Wherever ya fetch up, turn y'r hand ta what ya find there."_

So, the dark-haired substitute aquanaut followed his rescuers to their underground headquarters, seeing the sights and learning some names in the process. The tallest and most talkative was named Zed. Turned out to have greyish-blond hair and blue eyes, when he removed his helmet, at detox.

"It is being lucky, Sir and Meester Kabe, that we are to preparing for patrol, in doing normal-wise. We are arriving quickly, when is sounding alarm."

Another, shorter officer, this one called Yona, nodded eagerly.

"We are to otherwise not reaching in soon enough time," she assured him. The other guy, Foln, was sort of shy. Real curious about Caleb, but more of a thinker than a talker, like John Tracy or Josh, back home.

One was halfway brunette, the other with hair so fine and silver-transparent, it hardly counted, at all. Two were blue-eyed, but Foln had eyes almost Gordon Tracy amber. Or, wait… grey. No, green, or… Shoot. Never mind.

Anyways, they didn't look all that much like Kaise or… or… _Sharl,_ that was her name! These guys weren't all one colour or shape. Like, Yona had some actual _curves,_ Bro. They were more different. More, hmmm… 'individual', to pull out one of his best five-credit words.

Being among 'em still made him smile, though. Even in trouble, stuck in detention on the wrong frickin' planet. It felt like _home;_ like closer to Kaise. They talked a lot. Or, rather, Zed and Yona talked. Foln shook his head and Caleb listened, while they stripped on out of their radiated, battered green armour in detox. Wore olive-drab, GDF-style peace-keeper clothes, underneath.

"Is to being no contact from Airth, Sir and Meester, and only distress beacon from Merz, in whole cycles of Time Parts!" Zed confided, after they'd been fully hosed down and lemon-scented.

"You are to coming from Airth? You are to explaining what is passing, there?" broke in Yona, wringing her long-fingered hands.

Caleb looked like a squat, chubby dwarf by comparison. Felt dragged-on by all that heavy-world gravity; like he was all the time trudging through deep snow and mud.

"I'm from Earth," he confirmed. "But not the one from this time. My Earth's not in the dang soup, like _that_ one always is! Dude, it's like seven-hundred years is the nexus of crud! The crossroads of crap! Something, for real, _always_ goes wrong at FN700! What the flip, yo?!"

Well, he'd been noticing things as they left detox and walked along those very straight, narrow streets: lots of whirring red flare-warning lights, very few people (and all of those drifting along in wraparound VR headsets), no decorations or signs. How Zed and the crew found their way around was a complete mystery to Caleb, at first.

He'd had to dispose of his radiation-fouled IR recruit uniform, switching into a too-long, too-tight "basic garment". Dull grey with bits of circuits worked in, like everything else he'd seen in this place. Dang, man… did detention _have_ to be so frickin' dismal?

Headquarters turned out to be in the centre of the centre. (Heh!) Just a slightly larger dull metal square with one irising doorway. The door made a grinding sound, with some soulful moan thrown in, rather than swishing right open like in the movies. Caleb felt cheated.

Inside, he got a surprise when Zed and Yona parted to go stand beside a plain-looking office desk, while Foln sat down in the chair behind it.

"Dude!" the freckle-faced neo-aquanaut blurted. "You're in charge? You, like, run this place?"

Foln smiled shyly.

"It is being my quarter to direct, Sir and Meester," he replied. Then, calling up a virtual screen in the faintly sparking air over his desk, Foln said, "We are to being in suspense for how to treating you, Meester Kabe. You are not being an inmate or refugee, and not having status of official visitor. Can you please to explaining your coming here?"

"Sure," Caleb told him, after taking the chair that Yona brought from a side-room. Felt really good to sit down; like he'd just taken about two-hundred-seventy pounds off his feet. But he was cool about it. Didn't grunt, or anything. Just kept on talking. "I used the prototype transport disk back home in the lab to try and reach Earth, seven-hundred years in my future. I mean, I had the coordinates busted out, and everything. I _know_ I put 'em in right! All I wanted to do was find my girlfriend, Kaise. She's… y'know… you'll understand, when you meet her, how much I can't let her fade right outta my life. She's more than just beautiful. She's... I mean, we were talking about hooking up, permanent. Like, marriage n' junk. I miss her, okay? A lot. Can you help me find her? Is there, like, a public citizen database here, too?"

Caleb was surprised by the way his own voice had started to shake. Not going to cry, dang it! _Not gonna frickin'_ _cry!_ Focused on the desk. Saw that his filtered image on Foln's VR screen had turned varying shades of blue and green, with little glowing symbols beside it.

"You are truthing to us," Foln sighed. "This is to making us trouble, but also maybe to helping. I will to soon looking for Kaise… Bek-dotter? To yes, Sir and Meester? Good. Kaise Bek-dotter will be searching for. You will to helping us learn of Airth, and what is to be doing for their condition."

There was a big, blue and red flag, or something, on the wall behind Foln's squeaky grey office chair. Brightest colours Caleb had seen since leaving that broiled red surface. Not very fancy, like WorldGov's plow and star; just two slightly spiraling swooshes. Still, better than more frickin' dang grey.

"Deal!" he agreed. Whatever it took, bro. "Tell me what you know about Air… _Earth,_ and we'll go from there."

Turned out to be a long, weird-butt story, most of which Foln had from third-hand, or plain guess work, but… Here and now, Proxima B was a low-grade detention centre; the place you sent pick-pockets, religious nuts and people who wouldn't conform to Unity. There were settlements on both the East Pole (directly facing that awful, unsetting sun) and the West Pole (locked in eternal darkness, bro). Roaring winds never ceased, ducked only with powerful force-shielding and underground structures. A prison, in every sense of the word.

Those currently here weren't mostly criminals, but their frickin' descendants. 'Cause they hadn't got a new case in over a hundred Time Parts, and Earth wouldn't pay for transport back home… although you could work off the cost of your fare, in theory. Most didn't bother, though. Except for a few late-generation guards, technicians and medics, most folks preferred to wear constant VR headsets and stay locked in their own shared paradise. Caleb didn't much get the specifics, but Yona was closest to "release"; proud to say that her future grandchild, if the family kept on working hard, would have earned the fare back to Airth.

"Dude," Caleb cut in. "Not to make waves, Brosters, but that kinda sucks! I mean, _you_ didn't do anything wrong! And you're still here, working in jail, hoping to buy your grandkid some freedom? What the goof?"

Said Yona, from her spot to the left of Foln's desk,

"My ancestor is to resisting Unity, Meester Kabe. He is to… to 'preaching sedition' is being recorded offense." Her head drooped, shifting the tangled mass of her brown, messy bun almost into those deep blue eyes. "But, in these many passing of folk, we are to changing, being _very_ conformed. Very correct with procedures. We are to being guards, from since next-gen inmate C, who is Ancestor Karling."

Uh… sure. Moving right along…

"Sorry, Chica. Didn't mean to harsh your world view, or anything. Whatever keeps you going, right? Anyways, I get the sitch, _here…_ but what about Airth? What's to doing, over yonder?"

Foln took over, now. Banishing the VR exam screen with a quick hand-wave, he explained what he knew, which wasn't much, but filled in some blanks for Caleb. Turned out that a few hundred years past, a massive rogue planet had slashed by the Terran system on a, like, tangent; kind of beneath the planets' orbital plane. Dodged Jupiter, which might have helped to deflect the dang thing, and shot on past, just below Earth and Mars. All of that extra-solar hurtling mass and momentum sent the one bouncing clean out of its orbit, and the other spiraling inward, right for the Sun.

"So… Earth is out _there,_ someplace?" Caleb gestured at their low, pocked-metal ceiling. "And Mars is fixing to crash into the _Sun?_ Like, take your pick, nightfall or scorch?"

Foln bit his lip, and then nodded.

"We were thinking to be receiving of refugees, Meester Kabe, but if you are not one, then there are to being no escapers and no contact, in more Time Parts than my life is long."

"Well… _crap,"_ Caleb muttered, shaking his head. "No wonder that disk bounced me here! Earth wasn't anywheres close to my spacetime coordinates, and frickin' dangerous, too! Shoot. Crud-crap! Okay… I know some guys who can maybe help. We just gotta find a way to get them a message."

Yona and Zed drew closer. The tallest young guard pulled out a very old, sparking holo disk. It showed a young earthman holding a small, weeping child in his arms. A little girl, it looked like. Hard to tell, through all of the static and skips.

"This is to being my ancestor's partner and child, Meester Kabe. Last image, before arresting and transport is sending Inmate Emerson to Proxima. I might be to still having people on Airth. If we can saving them, and your Kaise…?"

Caleb nodded, pushing himself right on up out of that chair, heavy-world grav, or no.

"You bet, Zed. I'm with International Rescue, and that's what we do. Step one, let's re-jigger that disk of yours, for Earth, _my_ time."

'Cause, ready or not, Thunderbirds were about to be go, seven hundred years in the future.


	12. Chapter 12

Hi, guys, posted in haste, after returning from Oklahoma, by way of Houston, Texas. Will edit for sure, once my brain works, again. Edited! Thank you! :')

 **12**

 _Trapped in a prison of anguish and pain, not at all certain quite where-_

"You are not like them, Tanusha," she'd been told, upon waking once more. "You are a predator; born to rule, not to serve."

She'd come to her senses in a series of five linked chambers. Large and well furnished, each one opened into the next through a short passage, forming a ring. There were no windows or external doors. Only walls of dense, seemingly impenetrable dark stone; black, hard and grainy to the touch.

There was greenish-blue carpeting where that made sense, bathroom facilities, a thermal-spring wading pool and many warm light-crystals. These shed a sunny radiance like that of midafternoon back in… in… someplace she could almost remember.

 _He_ appeared quite often, joining the girl for most of her meals and occasional "lessons". He was older than she was. Much taller and stronger, too. Very handsome, in a way that wasn't quite right. Not like… other people she'd known, who'd loved her, in that vanished place she could not quite recall.

The man showed up without warning, whenever he chose; stepping from seemingly nowhere. Always, he tested her strength, and laughed when he found it wanting. At one meal, invisible servants uncovered a dish to reveal bland and lumpy grey mush. Reflexively, Tanusha made a face.

"Eww…!" she muttered, not very loudly. "Gross!"

The tall man smiled at her from across the table. His own plate was laden with something complex that smelt a lot better. _Her_ supper stank of old onions and cigarette butts. Green eyes intent and hard, he leaned forward, saying,

"If your meal displeases you, Tanusha, you must re-cast it. Push aside my hold on your senses, and form whatever you wish to consume."

The girl had tried; to the point of headache and temporary blindness, she'd shoved herself at that plate of inedible mush, sometimes earning a brief flicker of peanut butter sandwich and chocolate milk, or pizza and soda. But never for more than an instant. Never long enough to taste what she'd "summoned".

So, day after day, Tanusha ate nothing but tiny bites; just enough to silence the cramping pain in her gut. "Lessons" continued, regardless. Many times, a small animal was brought. A kitten, mouse or shivering puppy, too young to do more than whimper and squirm. Tanusha's heart went out to the poor creatures, abandoned and helpless in this terrible place. She would have sheltered them, but the man laughed at her weakness, smashing the tiny things in front of her and daring Tanusha to stop him.

She couldn't, of course. Too young and feeble, herself, to do more than amuse her sneering captor. There was no escape for the girl. _He_ could simply appear whenever he chose to. She was trapped by miles of unyielding black stone.

"I want to go home," the girl whispered, once that awful, taunting monster had left her, again. "Please, I just want to go home…"

Only, Tanusha could not even recall who she was crying for; just the faint memory of warmth, love and protection. Of training in… in… not destroying the weak but defending them. This place wasn't right, wasn't _home_ , and she knew it. Someone, somewhere, had found and sheltered her. Maybe they'd do so again… unless Tanusha made her own way out and returned to them; those rough-voice-warm-embrace-up-in-the-sky people who'd loved her.

 _(And she knew they were looking. She_ _knew_ _it.)_

One day, huddled on the carpeted floor of her sleeping room, Tanusha began trying to reason things out. Earlier, _he_ had forced her to kill a terrified, broken-limbed kitten to end its suffering… then showed her that she herself, under his grip, had harmed the poor creature. Now, as tears slid unheeded from her scrunched-tight green eyes, Tanusha came to a few sharp conclusions.

First: she was not a young child. Couldn't be. Not with persistent ghost memories of a whole other life, somewhere safer.

Second: this place was not real. All that happened here was in her own head, somehow. Otherwise, how could food and air reach a chain of five linked and sealed caverns? There were no vents and no doors, and yet _he_ came and went as he pleased. Maybe was watching her, now.

Third: he was trying to undo what she'd learnt somewhere else. To re-cast her, the way he'd said she could re-make her food. And if so… if her horrible prison was subject to will-power, then could she possibly fashion a door?

Biting her lip, the girl scrambled to her feet like a colt rising from fragrant straw. (Straw… colts… horses… _home;_ for just a moment she'd seen faces, a farmhouse, and a giant machine, turning slowly in space. Could a door be opened to there?)

Tanusha squared her thin shoulders, breathing hard and pressing both small fists against her thighs. She had _not_ killed a kitten or broken its legs, because there had been no kitten to kill. This was a place in her mind. She'd been locked here, by _him._

Shaking her head, the girl sped to a cavern wall, feeling its rough stone beneath her small, moving hands.

"It's fake," she told herself. "It's not really here. It's just a block in my own head, and I _will_ break through it"

Wished she had someone to call upon. Somebody's face and name to hold in her thoughts. Instead, there was nothing but dark, cold rock and her own burning need to escape.

"Get out of my head!" she whispered, pushing against that stone wall with both little hands. "I'm not like you, and I never will be. Get _out,_ dammit!"

For a brief instant, that wall turned misty; like a network of weaving smoke and flashing pale lights. Almost, she fell right through it. Then, the wall suddenly hardened once more, closing around the struggling young girl like a tightly clenched fist.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Yokosuka, Japan-_

Needless to say, he couldn't just leave. Even with Scott found and the hospital fully evacuated. Not while Kayo was still out there, somewhere; maybe hurt or imprisoned. His brother would have stayed, and Lee Taylor, too… Only, Scott needed medical help, while Lee had to drag him home in the Prototype.

Penny was exhausted, and trying to hide it. Didn't have Tracy-type stamina to keep her going for days on end. She'd offered to remain behind and help search, but didn't fight very hard when John told her _no._

All of this left him stuck with Wayne Rigby, who he'd rather have palmed off on Lee or Penelope. John didn't trust the former Marine, who'd been the very last person with Kay. Couldn't come up with a good excuse to get rid of the guy besides: _I don't like you._ Didn't mean that he had to be gracious about it.

"Maybe you're telling the truth," said John, folding both arms across his chest. He was back in uniform, having picked up a spare blue environment suit from the Prototype, once Scott and Penny were safely aboard. (Parker, or course, would be flying FAB-1) "For your sake, I hope so. I'm not easy to hide from, Rigby, and I don't forget."

The gold utility sash had slipped from his hands, briefly, as he'd been fishing through the TB-5 resupply locker. Then, it was back; felt for, not seen, because he'd been keeping his eyes on Wayne Rigby.

The Marine nodded, once. He looked bleak and haunted, John thought. Like a man too busy kicking his _own_ ass to worry what everyone else thought.

"Your sister's her own woman, Mister Tracy. She told me to wait in Thunderbird Shadow and give her a five-minute head start. I listened, mostly. Might have left a few seconds early, but by that time, she was out of my sight, with a big flock of birds in the way. I didn't catch up with her again till she called up to say that she'd found your brother and needed my help."

John frowned at the husky blond officer (well… former officer; like John and Scott's, his service state was now in dispute).

"Wait… Kayo said that she needed help? Exact words 'help me', or something like that?"

Rigby's blue eyes narrowed in thought. They were still standing in the Prototype's big, spartan crew quarters, hashing out what the heck to do next.

"Yes, sir… I _think_ so. It's tough to remember exactly, because I was creeping along on an old wooden cross beam, at the time. I heard her yell, and I promised to hurry." (No reason to mention his fall, Rigby figured.)

He met the astronaut's sea-green eyes forthrightly, fighting the screaming need to go find Kayo _now._ John appeared troubled. Raked a gloved hand through his red-golden hair, musing,

 _"Hunh._ Not like Kay to ask for help, ever. She's too proud for that. Might be safe to assume that by the time you arrived at the fortress basement, the switch had already been made."

"Then… we should go back there?" Wayne urged. "Start searching?"

But the tall, handsome Tracy shook his head, no.

"Think this thing out, Rigby. Who wants her, and _why?_ If they let Scott go, chances are they already got what they needed from him… even if that was just luring more of us out here. But Kay… well, I dunno how much she's told you about herself..."

The Marine captain shrugged.

"Not a lot, Mr. Tracy. She, um… doesn't resemble the rest of you, but I didn't pry. It didn't matter to me, because I've never met anyone else like her, Sir, and…"

"John, Captain or Tracy. Not Sir," said the astronaut, starting to head for the hatch. "Sir's Dad or Uncle Lee." Then, "Tanusha's adopted. Tracy through love and acceptance, not birth. She has, uh… _other_ family. Actually, there's more than just that. More than Tracys and Kyranos, out there. All of them what you'd call 'Specials'. Some of them scary-ass weird. Maybe the substitute Scott and Kayo were some of _them…_ and maybe her other folks took a chance and tried to reclaim her, in all the confusion."

Rigby stuffed both hands in the pockets of his new, clean recruit uniform, fists balled up so hard that they hurt.

"Where do they reside, Mister Tracy?" he probed, employing every bit of self control he'd learnt in a hundred military court battles.

"Antarctica," said John, without hesitation, at first. Then, "I mean… we've been there with her to face them, I think."

Rigby didn't question the source of John's insight. Having experienced the same timeline shift as his clients, he knew all about rootless, orphaned memories. Said,

"Okay. So, our operating assumption is: she was switched out while I was distracted climbing down, and transported right then and there because these 'Kyranos' want her back. So, how do we track them down and find her?"

"Thunderbird Shadow," John told him. "Her Bird's fast, it has stealth capacity and we can reach it through the tunnel system, or else remote-fly it here. Remote-flying's faster."

"But, if she's down below somewhere, like your brother was, maybe still in a life-support tube…"

"Then, we're better off taking the catacombs. I've got a friend who can spread out and search as we go," finished John, resettling his golden uniform sash, which felt different, somehow. More constricting.

Didn't matter, because they had a goal and a game plan, now. They had hidden skills, a battle-computer ally and… most of all… Tanusha, who would not be sitting around like a princess in a tower, waiting for help. Knowing Kay, she'd meet them halfway, dragging her captors behind her. All they had to do was follow the noise of chaos and screams.


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you, guys! Edited.

 **13**

 _Tracy Island, suddenly plunged into flickering, low-powered half-light:_

So, like… visualize it, okay? Not as if life on TI was ever actually boring. But, even by their weird standards, this had been one heckuva ride. That wailing alarm from the transport lab was just the latest thing in a roaring crap-storm that had started when Dr. Reeves decided to try out his newest invention. (And, for reals… someone ought to yank that guy's ACME mad genius account, or something.)

Anyways, when the alarm went off, Al looked around to make sure that Piper was with him, then took off running for the research complex. Same place Brains kept his time crystal and all sorts of other scary, captured tech. Alan hadn't got more than a peek at the baby… um, new kid… but Grandma and Zara had things under control, and he'd have plenty of chances to get to know Fermat, later.

Since Gordon was busy with Chip, Brains and Dr. Moffat, that left Alan, Virgil and most of the New Crew to check out whatever was going on down below. Al got there first, sprinting through about half a mile of ringing metallic corridors and huge, busy workrooms. A swarm of Maxes joined him en route, flashing their little red "oh, crap" signals.

The time lab was safe; Al shot right past it, doors sealed and everything. Saw that the prototype transport chamber hadn't been busted wide open, either. Only, as Alan slowed down, panting a little and sweating lightly, he spotted its over-door status light flashing a business-like red. Yeah… that wasn't awesome.

Virgil pounded up a few seconds later. He was bigger than Al, and much stronger, but couldn't run as fast. Also looked… suddenly older, or something? More like Scott? Next came Piper, Cody and Janice, all of them flushed and out of breath. AC wasn't working, for some reason.

"Is it locked?" Virgil demanded, doing the big-brother-take-charge thing. Kind of brushed past Alan to touch the lab door's palm scanner. Usually, only Brains, John, Dad and Dr. Moffat were allowed full access. Caleb had just been added to that list, because he was Brains' new assistant.

The palm scanner chirped, recognizing Virgil, but one of the Maxes had to buzz them in after getting the okay from Dad, up in Thunderbird 5. Inside… Well, Alan had been braced for just about anything from zombies to robot assassins to alien space babes… but the lab was empty. Smelt like ozone; like a thunderbolt had just struck that still-crackling transport disk.

Piper and Cody went over to check the lab's computerized workstation, which was online, beeping and flashing like crazy. Alan, Virgil and Janice Ming split up to circle and look at the knee-high neutronium transport disk. There were darting spears of blue-white energy lancing along its seams, radiating face-scorching heat.

"Someone's used it, alright," said Virgil, scowling. "My money's on Caleb, unless that sneaky sonuvabitch shows up in the next ten seconds."

Piper turned away from the workstation, looking worried. Her flower crown was tilted funny, and her long purple hair was all over the place.

"Not an accident or a power surge, guys. It was activated on purpose by Caleb, using Doctor Hackenbacker's security code. Cody's still working out the spacetime figures…"

"Earth, seven-hundred years from now, on what should be a public transport network," said Cody, looking up from his red-lit screen. "Not sure how he got those coordinates, but he triggered a jump, and power's down to twenty percent in all Base Systems."

"It works like a time machine, too?" Virgil wondered aloud, brown eyes narrowing.

"If pushed, yes," Cody admitted. Like Piper and Janice, the pale-haired, wolf-eyed chaos adept looked sort of embarrassed. Maybe because Caleb was one of the New Crew, and he'd just let them all down, colossally. "Time is simply another setting on the 4D coordinate matrix; tricky to handle, is all. Takes an insane amount of power to do it, and strains the mechanism to its absolute limits. Still, in theory…"

"Nuh-uh," Alan cut in, shaking his golden-blond head. "In, 'he actually did it', not theory. Caleb went back someplace he remembered from never-was."

Every dang one of them had weird, ghostly memories of that altered timeline.

"Why?" snapped Virgil, completing his circuit of the sparking and sizzling transport disk. "And why _now?_ H*ll of a time to drain the d*mn batteries."

Janice Ming had rejoined Cody. She was a very beautiful woman. But then, her family could afford all the latest infant gen-mods. Naturally, she looked like a frickin' Chinese super-model.

"Whatever his reasons, he's committed a serious breach of trust and security, Virgil… Alan… and I'd like to go get him, myself." Having remote-flown Thunderbird 1 for almost two days straight, she was tired, but still in the fight. Except, Alan wasn't having any.

"I'll go," said the young pilot. "Me and…" Piper was silently waving her arms, out of sight of the others. "Me and Pip, if she feels like tagging along. I'm in charge of the New Crew, so Caleb's my responsibility and Piper's his friend. We can do it."

Made all kinds of sense, because Scott wasn't in flying shape, yet, so Janice was going to be needed right here. Virgil, too, as temporary field commander.

The cargo pilot ran a big hand through his un-gelled black hair. There was just so-the-h*ll-much going on, he thought, and now _this._

"Have we got power for another trip out there, with two people riding the transport wave?" he asked.

Cody Beech seemed to go blank and distant for a few seconds. Then, as their lights flared brighter and the lab's machinery surged back to full strength, he said,

"We do, now. Entire Pacific Rim's experiencing a brownout, though. There may be some follow-on effects and minor emergencies… but we're good for one more trip to whenever."

From upstairs, in Thunderbird 5, the Colonel said,

"Cody, if you're going to be a part of this team, you can't risk harming innocent people. That's not how we operate."

Beech looked confused. He liked Typicals well enough… was deeply in love with one of them… but found the notion of always keeping them safe a bit puzzling. Jan took his right hand and gave it a warm squeeze. Speaking for her boyfriend, she said,

"Understood, Colonel. We're learning this game as we go, all of us. I take full responsibility for Cody's actions and Caleb's, too. We'll fix whatever's gone wrong because of them, Sir."

There was a slight smile in Jeff Tracy's warm, thrilling voice as he responded,

"I'm sure that you'll get your team back on the straight-and-narrow, Janice. In the meantime, Alan, I suggest that you suit up in full environment gear. Piper, too. The situation over then may be hostile." It certainly had been, the last time. Next, he said, "Virgil, son, we've got a lot to talk about, but this isn't the time or the place. There's a mail plane due to arrive in twenty minutes. I'd turn it around, but there are passengers aboard who'll just keep trying, unless I pull rank. You'll want to go meet and prep them, son."

"Yessir," said Virgil Tracy, to his father's hovering, disembodied voice. "Any word on Kayo?"

"Your brother and Captain Rigby are out there searching, Virgil. I'm providing them with all of the resources at my disposal…" Jeff sighed deeply, sounding bone-weary and close enough to touch. "…but I wish I was there to help out. Not sure how John avoids going crazy, this far from the action."

Maybe it was like caviar, Grandma's cooking or getting thwacked by your brothers; something you just got used to.

All this time, Alan had been struggling into the Thunderbird 3 deep space survival suit that the Maxes brought over. Struggling, because he was usually dressed by nanny-bots in a dang transport tube. Snuck a peek at Piper, and saw that the tall, violet-haired girl was having similar issues with hers. Looked really good getting into that pressure suit, though.

Meanwhile, Cody had gone back to examining the transport disk's coordinate settings.

"That can't be right," muttered the chaos adept. Leaning over the keypad, he altered a few coordinates. "That's nowhere _near_ Earth, unless…"

As Janice and Virgil looked on… as elsewhere, storm clouds gathered… Cody Beech changed a few more settings.

"There," he said, looking up with a faint sort of halfway smile. "These coordinates will put you on Earth, for certain. Sends power along to activate dormant receivers, if necessary. No misses, guaranteed. If Caleb isn't there…"

"Then we'll grab the nearest ship and go peel his butt off the moon, or whatever asteroid he's made himself king of!" Alan joked. Got eye-rolls from everyone but Pip, who snorted amusement, and Cody, who just looked blank.

"Seriously," scoffed Alan. "How hard could it be? Zip to the future, nab one runaway junior aquanaut, and head home. Back before Grandma burns dinner."

I mean… _right?_


	14. Chapter 14

**14**

 _Strapped up safe in the Prototype's medical bay, more or less half awake-_

Scott listened as the giant new Bird taxied clear of all obstructions and then lifted off, roaring like avalanche, thunder and volcanic ruin combined. First came deep and rumbling vibration that soon smoothed out into fast, banking flight. Like most pilots, he loved to fly, hated being flown. _Knew_ he could do the job better than Captain Taylor… except for that partial blindness thing, and, uh… not being able to hear very well.

Whatever. Just like John had regained some feeling and movement in that unlucky arm of his (thanks to the Survivor, possibly?) Scott would recover full use of his senses. He _had_ to. Vacations, sick leave and sleep were for weaklings; those who couldn't keep going, no matter what. Scott Tracy wasn't weak. Wouldn't let himself be.

There was a fragrant bundle of female leaning half out of her bulkhead jump-seat to cuddle him. She shouldn't have done that; it wasn't safe to be out of restraints during take-off… but Scott didn't fuss. She felt good, draped halfway across him like that, drowsing and murmuring fond, silly nonsense.

One of his arms held her tight, linked to his right hand like a muscular human safety belt. From time to time he sleepily craned over to kiss the top of her tousled blonde head; feeling her rubbing her face languidly back and forth against his bare chest. _That_ sparked certain ideas, but, yeah… not here. Not with Max standing by uttering righteous, safety-wise chirps. He'd probably trank them both if they tried anything, and then they'd arrive at the Island unconscious, still locked together and NEVER hear the end of it.

"Scott, Dearest…" Penny murmured, blue eyes closed in a drowsy soft smile.

"Yeah?" he managed, drifting into that warm, half-lit phase between dreaming and wakefulness. There were clowns on the rib bucket. Puppies noodle-walked the left aileron, 'cause Lee couldn't goddam make peanut butter French-fries… sideways.

"I am of ancient, proud lineage, maintained by WorldGov at public expense… cannot marry outside of my, erm… 'set'… without descending to commoner status."

Hunh? Noble bean-pillows? (He was marrying Penelope in an underwater cave system fed by unicorn pipes. The Mechanic and Dad had escorted her in, then turned away to serve everyone rice pudding and whiskey in dripping clamshells. Gordon performed a lively interpretive dance… John married Eos… while Alan read the ceremony off of the ancient vegetable-scroll he was wearing as a formal robe. Virgil sang and played the Mineral March, meanwhile, and everyone said, "Happy Birthday". Grandma and Brains brought in the rings, which were two sparkling bottle caps they clamped to their noses with wire. Kayo set off fireworks that flashed in the lemonade cave sky, reading: _Please come quickly. I need you._ )

Asked about it all afterward, Scott could only say that he knew Kay was out there, somewhere, calling for help, and that they had better move fast.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, around the same time-_

Virgil Tracy was bone-weary, rumpled and had that 'lived-in' look. Yeah, that's the word. Lived-in. Also a couple years older than he had been that morning, with (no lie) a few silver-grey hairs at the temples. Maybe, like Dad, he was going grey early?

Anyhow, his face still looked mostly the same, as a quick glance in the mirror revealed, when he went to the head to wash up. Harder lines at the mouth and brow, though. Jaw slightly sharper. Stuff like that.

A shower would have been nice, but twenty minutes wasn't enough time to do much sprucing up. Emma was coming, and he meant to meet her on the tarmac, even if the Hood, the Chaos Crew, twenty shape-changers and Chancellor Shaw, himself, barred the way.

There was no time to shave, either, which she'd no doubt give him crap over… but Virgil didn't care. His woman was coming, and that's all that mattered right then. Brushed his teeth, dashed at his pits, spritzed on some of Scott's _'Eau de Real Tough Guy'_ cologne, and then loped on out of the bathroom, causing the door to swing wide and bang hard on the wall. Might've left a dent, but he'd fix it later, or Max would.

Anyhow, crossed the house in Olympic-sprint record time, grinning like a fool. Swore he could already hear the plane's engines, mosquito-whine faint in the distance. Impossible, of course, but great incentive to hurry. Raced outside, through the main doors, down a long set of landscaped cliff-stairs and down to the airstrip, in soft evening light and a rising breeze from the gossiping sea. A few shy stars and a fresh slice of moon were just peeping out of that liquid-dark sky.

Virgil inhaled deeply, getting himself together before Emma arrived. What would she think of the changes? Would she notice, or care?

Sea-smell and night-blooming tropical flowers, flitting bats with their high-pitched clicks, it was all so d*mn _beautiful._ Not like the Ranch, but still home. Still where he wanted his woman… and maybe someday their children… to live and be happy. Be safe from the outside world.

Now, for certain, Virgil spotted a tiny set of blinking red-and-green landing lights, high up in the sky to the north and east. No sound yet but wind-song and surf-roar, and the joyful thud of his own bursting-full heart. Would she _want_ to stay? If he asked her to give it all up and move to the Island, maybe take up a job with IR? Moffy had done it, for Brains. Would it even be fair to ask?

Virgil watched the mail plane's slow, banking approach. Of course, _he_ could have done it better. Wouldn't have had so much trouble with crosswinds… but then, this guy was new; sort of a last-minute sub for Rogers, their usual courier, who'd gotten the flu, or something like that.

Not sure what he noticed first, or in what order everything happened, but… as best Virgil could later recall… his wrist comm's face burned suddenly red, on a frequency that meant only one person. Then, the landscape around him seemed to suddenly come apart into hissing clouds of tiny, smoke-like recycling nanites, streaming fast and hard for that labouring plane. Mechs were there, too; some bursting from the ocean, some shooting out of the house in a great, droning swarm.

His first thought was to launch in Thunderbird 2; to somehow get to the threatened craft, first. Only, there was no time at all.

"John! Dad!" he called out, slamming his glowing red comm. "Need emergency force-shielding on target bearing west-south-west Tracy Island, **now**!"

Then, Virgil triggered launch, anyhow, hurtling lava rocks, boulders of coral and spits of black sand to his Big Girl's runway, meaning to meet her halfway. Heart pounding, mouth dry, mind silently screaming: _Move, dammit!_ _Hurry!_

He could hear 2 in the distance, already growling her furious pre-launch runup. The runway lights flashed, and klaxons blared, as Virgil Tracy ran like a man whose fiancée's plane was about to be taken apart in midair. Too far… not enough time…

Something big and noisy half collided with, half picked him up from the ground. A hornet-drone and several Mini-Maxes, working together. Struggling with his awkward weight, they flew Virgil through wind and darkness, got him to Thunderbird 2, and dropped him right through his Girl's open top hatch.

She seemed to shimmer and seethe in the moonlight; as though she wore armour of skittering mechs. Virgil crashed too fast, slammed the deck too hard to pay much attention. Skinned his knees and palms in the process. Didn't care.

Surged to his feet and just about made a new forward hatch, rushing back into that lit-up and waiting cockpit. Face and voice calm, he hit the comm for Thunderbird 5 and desk, both.

"Emergency launch protocol. Aircraft in distress. Ready Island Base for possible attack, assailant unknown." And then, thinking that someone _else_ was probably listening, "Thanks. Hold her together, somehow. Just hold her together, till I get up there."


	15. Chapter 15

=) Thank you, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, Tikatu, Thunderbird Shadow and Creative Girl.

 **15**

 _Early evening, approaching Tracy Island in a Foster Light Shuttle-_

As vacations went, this one almost hadn't. Nothing like a face full of howling wind and shattered perma-glass to knock the Mai-Tais right out of you. Most of the egg salad, too.

The mail pilot had just ordered his passengers to strap in and hang on. Unexpected turbulence, he told them, over one uniformed shoulder. Was just banking around on final approach, lining up with the Island's airstrip, when he gave a sudden tremendous heave and veered off course, cutting hard right toward what looked like a plume of boiling smoke from below.

At first, O'Bannon thought that the Island's volcano had gone active, somehow, and that their pilot was dodging lava bombs. Then she felt her seat straps contract, choking-tight. Flashing lights and a harsh, blatting alarm tore the air.

Captain O'Bannon reacted without really thinking. Like Kraft, she twisted right out of her seat, then had to flail wildly and clutch at the bright-orange cargo webbing, as their plane took a sudden sharp nose dive.

 _"What the h*ll?!"_ Ridley shouted, inching her way forward on a slanted and shuddering deck. The mail plane's engines were screaming, its frame bouncing wildly as the pilot circumvented safety protocols and plunged for that oncoming, seething black swarm.

The space captain struggled and cursed, slip-sprawl-grabbing her way down into the cockpit.

"What's going on?!" she demanded, meaning to help out however she could. Only, the pilot whipped around with savage and boneless ease, erupting extra limbs and expanded, razor-toothed jaws. Sharp-bladed tentacles shot through his uniform, shredding it, lashing at Captain O'Bannon. Ridley was too well trained to freeze or waste breath screaming. Some of the blades she dodged but some hit, drawing blood in a dozen places.

Reflexively, she reached for her sidearm, but it was back in the cargo hold, along with her mag-light, helmet and uniform. Kraft shouted,

"Ree! _Catch!"_ And then threw something at Ridley. Hunting and fishing multi-tool; a gift she'd picked up in Hawaii for Virgil. O'Bannon fielded the thing, which converted at once to suit her right-handed grip.

She had to stop him; get them pulled up out of that deadly fall and away from the fast-rising, particulate smoke. No… not smoke, she realized. Recycling nanites.

Like facing armed space pirates, Ridley evaded a storm of spear-tipped limbs, slashing through several dozen. Tried to close with the pilot, who'd grown some kind of insect-like, chitinous armour. Diving forward, she grabbed for the steering yoke, while Emma got the pilot in a headlock and twisted… or tried to. He wasn't quite human. Could seemingly alter his joints at need. Bought Ridley enough time to wrestle the aircraft up, but took some deep cuts in the process.

Then, something big and dark collided with their viewscreen, smashing it. A hailstorm of perma-glass slivers and howling, buffeting wind filled the cockpit, nearly blowing both women back into the hold.

The thing… giant hornet-drone… clamped itself to the broken wind-screen. With jointed metallic back legs and high-voltage stinger, it seized and impaled their pilot. Like a piston, the charged and glittering stinger shot clean through his shape-shifting body and seat; flesh, cushion, metal and all. Then, with a noise of rending bolts and shorn deck, the hornet ripped him right out of the cockpit and through their shattered viewscreen, taking most of the other seat, too.

Snagged Ridley on the way, because she was wrapped up in saw-bladed limbs, still trying to yank their plane out of that power-dive. Emma caught hold of her. Wouldn't let go, as the hornet-drone's mandibles slashed at the rampaging shape-changer.

Maybe O'Bannon got hit a few times. Could barely tell, through the wind and noise and chaos. Couldn't focus on that. Had to… level… the Goddam… _aircraft._

Giant, scissor-like jaws amputated the last flailing beast-limb, just as O'Bannon succeeded in pulling them out of their plunge. For an instant, she saw herself reflected hundreds of times in the hornet's faceted eyes. Then it was gone, pushing away from the plane, still clutching its unbalanced load of murderous pilot and torn-away seats. Tumbled off into darkness, to splash down or crash God knows where. Couldn't tell. Too busy.

Half a breath later, something like a pale blue soap-bubble swelled to cover their hurtling plane, just before that fog of hissing dark nanites attacked. Visibility plummeted. All she could see was oily, swirling black fog, held back by a flickering, bluish-pale light. Wind and noise dropped, at least. Then she heard,

"Foster Alpha-niner-three-Bravo, this is Thunderbird 2. What is your condition?"

Ridley tried to answer. Was surprised to find blood in her mouth, which she had to spit out on the deck. Said Emma, hitting the comm switch,

"Thunderbird 2, from… sh*t… whatever we are. The d*mn mail plane! We're stable, under control and held in a force field. O'Bannon's got the con. She'll bring us in, if you can turn off those Goddam nanites."

"Copy that, Alpha-niner-three-Bravo. Are you injured? Dr. Hackenbacker's handling shutdown, but the usual off-code doesn't seem to be working."

Kraft looked herself over. Saw cuts and scrapes, a few developing bruises and a badly gashed shoulder, her end. O'Bannon looked worse, like she'd gotten stabbed a few times, but was too effing stubborn to notice.

"Uh… advise that you have a medic waiting on the tarmac, Thunderbird 2."

His reply was tense, concerned and professional; Taz, on duty.

"Got a medic standing by. Best on the Island. Going to expand that force bubble and push the nanites as far away as we can. That should give you some visibility. Are your instruments functioning?"

Emma glanced over at Ridley, who nodded mutely.

"That's affirmative, Thunderbird 2. My partner in crime, here, can fly us on in if you provide cover. Windscreen's gone, but the force shielding's keeping the weather out."

They'd begun pitching gently down and around again; Emma standing behind what remained of the copilot's seat, bracing Ridley, who was hunched over the mail plane's battered and sparking controls. Only one set, in this model.

As their force shield expanded, pushing the nanites away, Emma spotted Thunderbird 2, maybe five-hundred feet overhead. Big and solid and right there, like Taz.

The giant green cargo-lifter cut on its floodlights, turning tropical night into glowing-bright day. The Island was shielded, too, she saw; wavering pale-blue in its own dome of sheltering force.

"You're doing great, Alpha-niner-three-Bravo. Northeast cross wind, fifteen knots, at three hundred feet. Nothing you can't handle. Just line her up… like that… perfect. Now, bring her on in…"

There were bubbles of blood in Ridley's breath. Emma held tight to her friend's shoulders; willing her strength and endurance. The aircraft's force field met and mated with the Island's, and then they were through. Left the nanites outside but regained that wind through their shattered and gaping viewscreen. Ridley squinted and half looked away. Kept flying, though, as a quartet of very large wasp-drones darted in to clamp tight and spread transparent wings over the breach. Not perfect, but better than flying Air Hurricane.

Emma Kraft clamped her jaw shut and tightened her grip on Ridley, managing to loop a torn safety harness around her own waist and part of O'Bannon's left arm.

"I got you, Ree," she said. "I'm not going to let go."

O'Bannon nodded. Brought them in low, almost stall-warning slow, flaring up at the very last minute. There was foam all over the airstrip, jetted out of a fast-moving bulldozer thing, down below. Drones were suddenly everywhere. _Chik_ and _click_ and _skitter_ all over their torn-open hull. Cliff and house and mountain flashed past on one side, wild, floodlit sea on the other. She could feel Thunderbird 2's mighty inertia dampeners sweeping through them, cradling the battered mail shuttle. Metal bugs chewed at the hull and burrowed inside, linking like army ants to form cushions and belts for both injured women. Still the plane drifted downward.

Back wheels jolted home, bounced a little, then settled. Ridley shifted, almost tumbling backward, but Emma hung on, feeling her own feet leave the deck, but not turning loose.

Nose wheel came down as the airstrip rumbled past them. Touched, bounced with a loud squeal, and then dropped again, this time to stay. Ridley hit reverse thrust, braking hard. And somehow, incredibly, they came to a stop; more or less in one piece, with Thunderbird 2 overhead.

As her friend slumped in shock and relief, Emma caught her up.

'No, you don't, Captain," she ordered, staunching red, sticky blood with both hands. "Think I want to clean this mess all by myself? Wake up, you're still on the clock."

Gordon Tracy was there moments later with Josh Kelly and a grim, hovering cyborg. The glittering ant-drones released their hold on O'Bannon and Kraft at the machine-man's gesture. Emma pretended not to see the armoured and scowling Mechanic, who was once more on the GDF's hit-list. All things considered, she didn't much feel like arresting him.

Then Virgil arrived, having rappelled from his Bird in a harness. As Gordon saw to O'Bannon with Quick-Clot and bandages, the cargo pilot clambered within, scooped Emma up and held her close, getting blood all over his uniform. Kraft didn't cry, didn't shake, just hugged him right back; feeling his muscles bunch and shift, hearing his heart beat.

For a long, tender moment, they didn't speak. Then Emma leaned away for a bit, reaching a hand up to touch the side of his head, where a few silvery hairs shone amid all the black. Had a thousand questions, but settled for one.

"So… older man, huh?" she asked, smiling a little.

"Yeah. Long story," he replied. "Tell you all about it, inside, Angel."

"Okay," Emma agreed. "But I have to stay with O'Bannon. I promised not to let go, Taz, and I won't. I'll be there, when she wakes up."

Virgil nodded.

"Then, I will, too," he told her, putting a big, sheltering arm across Emma's back. Had to stand back to let Josh patch up that gash on her shoulder but didn't let Emma out of his sight. Couldn't. Most of his world, his heart and his future were linked to that one incredibly precious, tough-as-nails woman. They weren't safe. Not yet… but they were together, and for now, that was all that mattered.


	16. Chapter 16

'Allo! Many thanks, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Creative Girl and Thunderbird Shadow, for reading and reviewing. Your questions and comments help put things in focus.

 **16**

 _At the Proxima B East Pole Detention Centre, far in the threatened future-_

Well, it could have been worse, Caleb thought. Not on Earth, and nowhere near Kaise, he was still making progress, and maybe saving the world. Again. Might need a little help though, just like before.

See, nothing happened quickly on Proxima B. New situations just didn't come up very often and had to be parsed through an out-of-date rule book, whenever they _did._ Caleb Gonzalez didn't fit any of the usual categories. He wasn't a convict, colonist or visiting dignitary, which meant that his sudden presence sort of up-ended things. In, y'know… a good way.

Foln, Yona and Zed shared their noontime rations with him, because they couldn't requisition more food for a 'non-status person'. At first, Caleb felt bad about taking their lunch. Then he found out why they were so dang willing to share. Their ration turned out to be dense, chewy bricks of condensed protein, carbs and vitamins, which tasted about as good as it sounded. No one looked sorry to let him have part of their meal.

"Dude…" he marveled, after bolting stale, bottled water to soften a scratchy mouthful. "You eat this cr… stuff every _day?"_

They were out of the office again, seated on a grey metal bench by the quiet main street. No wind, little noise, few people.

Zed and Yona looked at each other, seeming to share secret mirth between them. Foln was suddenly busy calling up virtual holo-files. Made it real obvious that he wasn't looking.

Said Yona, pulling something like a grey metal headband out of her gear bag,

"Is to be tasting better, Kabe, if you are linking to public memory. I am always to liking best the 'spaget'."

"No, Kabe-Meester," Zed told him, leaning forward to cut off his view of Yona. "Is to be trying the 'hamerger special' at Cliffside Café. Is matching better the feel of the food-cube. Is to be gaining the public access menu first, though."

"Uh…" Caleb dithered. He glanced at Foln, who'd actually shifted around so that his back was now squarely turned to the three of them. So… not strictly approved, but none of the commander's business, either, and not really dangerous. Anyways, better than choking down dry, pasty nutrient gunk without ketchup.

"Okay," he decided, accepting what looked like a slim VR headset from Yona. "What 'm I supposed to do, just turn the thing on, click my heels and start chewing?"

"Accessing lunch files first, Kabe," the girl told him, sparkling with excited mischief. "We are to be making up an account for you. Paying us back by trying new food, is yes? There is taco sald, which I am not ever brave to order. Zed's uncle is saying it is to crunch in the mouth like bugs."

"It is," Zed confirmed ruefully, as Caleb put on those faintly humming VR specs. Reality seemed to blur and shift for an instant. Then he saw…

 _Whoa._ The whole street scene had changed. All at once, Caleb wasn't on grey, dreary Proxima B, anymore. He was… was outside, back in New Cali, at a beachfront café. Seriously, he could hear, see, feel and smell everything.

Soaring gulls and pterosaurs, ocean breeze, languidly rolling surf, warm sunshine, chattering people, food grilling behind him… even the yap of excited dogs… the sparkle and clink of a glass-and-shell wind chime. Could see distant surfers shooting the curl, out to sea. Smelt salt, tanning lotion and tropical flowers. Heard palm fronds and cloth, snapping in the wind.

Caleb stood up in complete astonishment. Dude. This place was more real, more _home,_ than home. All he needed was…

Kaise. Saw her, unbelievably right there, at the next splintery picnic bench table, under a fluttering blue and white awning. Still gripping his food brick (now a chili-cheese Bomber-dog, all the way) Caleb hurried over to join her; heart almost too full for words.

"Hey, Babe!" he said, voice gone all suddenly scratchy and hoarse. "Is that really _you?_ Are you online, or something?"

She smiled at him, looking more filled out and suntanned than he'd remembered. All those masses of wild golden hair were done up in a cascade of looped braids. She wore a blue one-piece bathing suit and a flowery orange sarong.

"I am to being an altered memory, Kabe. I am what you are wanting to see, as the system is making an account for you."

 _Shoot._ He reached out and took her slim, long-fingered hand, anyways. Stroked his thumb across the back of that delicate limb, with its knuckles like a string of small pearls. Said what he hadn't much had the courage to, before.

"I love you Kaise. Nothing's ever gonna change that. Maybe this isn't the real you, but you're out there, somewhere, and I'm gonna find you again, whatever it takes. Hang on, okay? Whatever's happening, Babe… hang on. I'm coming."

The girl's head tilted, and her smile became suddenly tender. There might have been tears in her big green eyes.

"You are doubting that I could love you, Kabe," she said. "You are to thinking yourself raw and unworthy, but that is not so. I am to seeing what Kay-zah must have seen, and knowing why she is loving you, too."

That was it. All that was worth relating to somebody else. They talked about other stuff, but that was the part that went straight to the substitute aquanaut's heart and firmed up his purpose. For the rest, until Yona switched off the VR set, he shared a chocolate milkshake and loaded Bomber-dog with Kaise, right there on that beautiful New-Cali beach. Holding hands and making a game of who had to eat the final, tiny last bite.

It was… for real… super hard to come back to bleak, barren Proxima. No wonder that so many people stayed under, like, _all_ the dang time. Just meeting their family and friends, interacting and working, in there. Caleb had to control his breathing and blink back tears on crossing over.

"Um…" he said. "Maybe I better not do that, again. I can eat food bricks, as long as you get me plenty of water. It's no worse than the astronaut ice cream at Wavey-World."

Foln had turned back around and now sat on that butt-worn grey bench, looking at him. The older man's wide hazel eyes were knowing and kind of sad. Like he understood just what Caleb was feeling.

"Is soon becoming addictive, Kabe-Meester," Foln told him. "For some, is being better never to going there. _This,"_ Foln gestured around them at those square and windowless buildings, the dull metal roof and straight roads. "…is to being grim, but is also truthing, and I am to staying alert. Staying myself. The young are drawn to playing at the edges. Some are to falling in and sweeping away in the Sim, but some are climbing back out, forever."

Caleb nodded, totally getting it.

"How long will the flare storm last?" he asked Foln, as Zed and Yona began eating their rations under VR. "When can we go back out to the transport booth and find Airth?"

Foln pulled at his own lower lip with one hand, considering.

"That is to being very uncertain, Kabe-Meester. Proxima Cent is being an unstable red dwarf. We are to sometimes having weeks of storms… but I am ranked to sign out a heavy terrain crawler. We can be to crossing over to Twilight, where is being an old farming colony, between Dayside and Night. There, the flares are not being so deadly. We can to accessing _their_ booth, no sweating."

"You won't get in trouble?" probed Caleb. After all, East Pole was a prison, and Foln its chief warden. But the older man just shook his head.

"Is to trust me, Kabe-Meester. No one is trying to escape… and where would they going to? Unless we are finding out how to unlock secure program, the booths only are sending one way."

"Would you leave if you could?" Caleb asked him, as Yona and Zed whispered and munched in the background, plunged in their own shared paradise. Slowly, Foln nodded.

"If there is being someplace to reach, Kabe-Meester, someplace that is good and still being real, I would to quick-going. Airth is being beautiful, then? Like in the vids and VR? This is actual truthing?"

"Yeah, it is," Caleb assured him, finding and chewing up one last bite of dropped food brick. "And we'll get you there, Bro. You, and anyone else who wants to come home. I promise."

Foln cocked his head, sending a few wisps of pale hair into his narrow face.

"That is good to be hearing, and I am thanking you for the hope, Kabe-Meester, whatever is happening next."

He stood up, then, unfolding like an old-fashioned jointed wood ruler.

"To staying with the young ones and watching, please. I am away to commandeer a heavy terrain crawler. We are to going at shift's end, all of us. Twilight is being next stop."

Twilight, where that giant red wound of a sun never quite rose or set, the storms weren't so bad, and maybe somebody still had a functioning transport booth.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere, completely distracted as his shape-changing allies botched their end of the strike-_

She was fighting him, d*mn her. Striving to shatter his grip on her mind. Ordinarily, such a display of willpower would have pleased him. Only, the damage to Tanusha's psyche caused by her kidnap and upbringing hadn't yet been repaired. Freed too early, she would simply attack him, then leave.

Only a constant battle prevented the girl's memories from rushing back to confuse her. Only his iron-tight hold kept her from calling out to the despised Tracys. Trapped in the fight of his life, Nikorr Kyrano hadn't been able to relax his guard by so much as a fraction.

That was the reason her "prison" was small. He could not wrestle his angry cousin and maintain a whole virtual world at the same time. Not even with help from the created-reality system.

Now, she'd managed to push halfway through his tight barrier. Far enough to maybe send out a message. Breathing hard, tapping several crystalline psionic spiders to cut off their drain, Niko reached out with still more of his straining mind. Tanusha lay in a life-support tube, strapped down in a streaking air-speeder headed south for the Ross Island Base.

Its pilots were reporting headaches, nose-bleeds and ringing ears; all signs that his dear cousin was lashing out at her bonds, trying to claw her way free. _'What a woman she'll become,'_ he thought. What a partner, for anyone strong enough to earn her respect.

Love meant nothing to Nikorr Kyrano but a brief hormonal mating urge; soon over and quickly forgotten. That his mother was still alive… that he maintained her in safe and protected quarters, below… was a secret known only to a few trusted servants and the Kyrano, himself.

Was guarding and visiting one's mother this 'love' that Tanusha kept ranting of? If so, should he stop? Leave Mikah to fend for herself?

No. Given time, Nikorr could have come up with a hundred perfectly logical reasons why preserving his mother made sense… and maybe that was the answer.

Once before, Tanusha had given in, rather than allow the Kyrano to slaughter her shadow-family. Perhaps if he plucked one of her favourite "brothers" from the girl's mind, then brought this construct into her prison…

He'd have leverage, Nikorr decided. A hostage with which to regain and command her obedience. Quite clearly, small animals weren't enough to sway the stubborn girl. He required something… some _one_ … more important. Closer to Tanusha's tainted heart. All he needed to do was sort through those repulsive, emotion-drenched memories, and select the right subject for 'play'. Then, he was certain, his cousin would once again crumble.


	17. Chapter 17

Hi, guys. =) One last post before the weekend's over. Be well and happy!

 **17**

 _Traveling-_

Suited up and ready to go, Alan and Piper had climbed onto that prototype transport disk, with Cody and Jan at the console, puzzling out the controls. Virgil had already headed upstairs to meet an incoming mail plane. (Which was carrying Al's new hoverboard plus a cool, kid-sized version for Chip… reeds for Piper's clarinet… plenty of hot sauce, etc.) Well, he'd have loads of time to unpack all the goodies later, Al figured. Right now, he was still on the clock.

Being transported felt weird; like he'd been taken apart, sifted through a roaring wall of condensed time and space, and then scanned back together again, somewhere very far else. Maybe he'd reached out to take Pip's gloved hand, just as that blue-flaring energy rose up to claim them. Maybe she'd squeezed his reaching hand… was still gripping, hard… when the last sparks died away, and they found themselves elsewhere and other-when.

They stood in some kind of dim, dusty booth, with faint, flickering lights and a cracked control panel. Like, seriously; someone had tried to rewire or sabotage the dang thing, judging from all the patches, damage and crosslinks he saw.

 _Dude_.

Alan called up his HUD to scan their surroundings, because the booth doors were too pitted and scarred to see out through… or else it was just really dark.

"Atmosphere reads okay," he remarked, as a cascade of glowing alphanumerics appeared in his helmet. "Pretty cold, though."

Beside him, Piper shifted position a little.

"Picking up some really faint life signs," she added, turning loose of Al's hand. "Almost a hundred of them. Think it's safe to head out, A-T?"

She was asking, 'cause, yeah… he was in charge, here. The guy with all of the rescue experience. His job was to find Caleb and then get all three of them safely back home again.

"Yeah," he said, "but let me go first. Wait and see if anything happens, then…"

"What?" Piper demanded, space armoured fists on her hips. "Discorporate? Drive the bad guys away with my sparkling wit? Unless you packed a few miracles, we're not getting back home in _this_ thing!"

Because the transport booth's loaned power had all been used up; leaving it dark, silent and utterly unresponsive.

"Well… _crap,"_ Alan muttered, as a last feeble light crackled off, right there in front of him. "Okay, we go out together, but be ready to hit the ground and come up rolling."

Last timeline, there had been rampaging alien dust, programmed to seek and consume organic lifeforms. At least, that's what Scott, Virgil and John had told him, out on the beach. This time…? Who knew?

The dead booth didn't open up by itself. Alan had to brace one shoulder against its cold perma-glass doors and heave (with, y'know, some help from Pip). Anyways, they got it slid open and then stepped out into cold, silent darkness. Almost tripped over a lot of high-piled chairs and equipment, like someone had tried to block access by building a barricade.

Al and Pip both cut on their helmet lights, sending beams of dust-spangled gold spearing out through the blackness.

"-4 degrees Fahrenheit," Alan remarked, looking around with the aid of his helmet beam. Saw blocked steps, a battered and half-twisted door, banks of silent equipment, and what looked a whole lot like dry-frozen human remains.

"Oh, _nooo…"_ mourned Piper, who was easily touched. "Poor people… I'm sorry, guys."

She had reason. At least one man had been shot, while another had sustained a deadly-serious skull fracture, long since dried up and caked. Some of those folks were just curled up together, dead on the floor from cold or… or whatever had finally gotten them. Starvation, maybe.

If Grandma had been there, she would have said the right words, but Al didn't know any. Pip mumbled something, though, and made little signs with one hand. Neo-Druid stuff, probably. Alan was careful to look the other way, so that his helmet cam wouldn't record her doing any illegal, non-Unity stuff.

He stepped away to examine the big room, which looked like some kind of control centre, with lots of barely-functional, powered-down workstations and staticky screens. One wall was all perma-glass, like mission control at a launch site, or something. Slowly, Alan threaded his way past those desperate, frozen-dry people, leaving a snake-trail of prints in what looked like ages of undisturbed dust.

Got to the window-wall, where he scraped at frost and grit to make a clear, round viewing space. Glare from his helmet light half-blinded the young astronaut, till he toned down the glow with a flick and blink of his sky-blue eyes.

Beyond, through the glass, he saw row after row, rank upon high-shelved rank of life support tubes…. Most of them dark. Alan's breath caught in something close to a sob. Dead. Almost everyone out there was frickin' _dead,_ maybe because of the fight that had happened, ages ago, in here.

"A-T?" came Piper's soft voice, close up and non-directional, through his helmet mic. "You okay? What's out there, Fly-guy?"

The young spaceman got himself together in a quick dang hurry. He was a Tracy; here to help out however he could, saving whoever was left. He could do this.

"Uh… not Caleb, that's for sure. Don't think he was ever here, Pip, or we'd 've seen tracks in the dust."

"'Kay," Piper responded, her nod of agreement making her helmet beam bob up and down like a glittery, gold-coloured laser. "So, Cody gave us a bum steer, and we need to head back, but _how?_ And is there anything left we can do for these guys? Anyone out there still alive?"

Alan turned from his scraped-out peephole to look back at Piper, his trainee-astronaut girlfriend.

"I'm working it out, Pip. Job one, I guess, is to establish contact with Caleb. He's got a wrist comm, and so do we. If he's somewhere else here on Earth, he might be in trouble…"

"…Or have some kinda clue what happened in here," Piper cut in, crossing the silent control centre to join him. "Do, uh… do I _want_ to see what's out there?" she asked, dark-blue eyes wide and concerned behind her perma-glass faceplate.

Al put a hand on her armoured shoulder, wishing he had a few brothers, his sister or, heck… even the Mechanic… along to help out. This didn't feel like a job for just Alan R. Tracy.

"Looks like most everyone went into medical life support stasis, Pip… only, the power went out." And he didn't need to explain what _that_ meant. Too many colony ships had reached their goal with a cargo and crew of rotting, dead meat.

She blinked. Took a deep breath and shook off a stab of worry and pain. Her folks were out in deep space, somewhere, in tubes not much different from these.

"Any left alive?"

Alan glanced back through the re-frosting peephole. Saw a small constellation of blinking green status lights.

"Some. Like you scanned, earlier, maybe a hundred or so. Those, we can save, once we've figured out how to get the main power switched on."

"And find Caleb," Piper reminded him.

"Yeah… that, too. Tell you what, Chica… I'll scan further out, see where we are, exactly. You boost up your wrist-comm signal and make contact with Butt-head Gonzalez."

Piper was still for a moment. Quiet. Then, she said,

"Don't be mad at him, Alan. I think he was after his… after someone he met, over _then._ The other timeline, I mean. Makes sense, y'know? I'd have gone after _you,_ A-T, even if I had to break all the rules doing it."

And she meant every word, he knew. She'd taken a crazy chance on his dumb, shaky telephone call, and come to the Island because… somehow… she'd remembered him. Love, at not-quite first sight. Space armour made it tough to really hug someone, but Alan gave it the ol' college try; squeezing metal and plastic to rattling metal and plastic. Then, letting her go, he said,

"Yeah… I get that, and I won't go too hard on the dude. He shoulda told us, is all. We would've helped him look."

"We still can," Piper decided, moving around the room to test reception. They appeared to be pretty far underground, and further than _that_ under ice. "We're his friends, right?"

"Right. And friends stick together."

Unlike the crew in that shattered and haunted control centre, whose battle had probably doomed the folks they'd been set there to guard. Shaking the blond head inside of his helmet, Alan began searching the room for its power console.

Nothing like that would ever happen to IR and the New Crew, he promised himself. They'd never turn against each other, no matter what. Yeah… life had seemed so simple, back when he'd just turned eighteen.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Yokosuka, Japan, underneath an evacuated hospital-_

Once they'd seen the prototype off, with its small, precious cargo of family, friends, pet and dinosaur, John and Captain Rigby started their search. Turned out that Scott's custodial closet led down through a false wall and narrow, twisting staircase for nearly half a mile. Ended at last in a system of tunnels; a web of catacombs underneath Yokosuka, Tokyo and God knows what else.

With a whispered command, John freed Jaeger to branch out through the tunnels' wiring. Didn't notice Captain Rigby's throat-clearing until the rigid former Marine had done it three times.

The astronaut glanced his way, a little impatiently.

"What's on your mind, Captain?" he asked, not slowing his stride in the least.

"As your legal counsel, Mr. Tracy, I must caution you against the use of expunged ancient languages in what may be a public, monitored area," the Marine responded, looking formal and tense.

The tunnels had started out concrete, but deeper down they were hollowed right into the rock; sort of like Brains' lab complex, or those old survival digs, under the Atlas Mountains.

"It's Deutsch," John grunted, more to himself than to Rigby. "People used to speak that. They had a language, a culture and history, Captain. Before f*cking Unity."

"I'm going to pretend I never heard that, Mr. Tracy. If I'm called upon to represent you in court…"

"I'll play ball," John promised, looking away. "Do whatever you tell me to. But I'm not on trial. Not yet."

"Hopefully, not _ever,"_ said Rigby, defrosting a little. "The very best case is the one that never goes to trial, trust me. To whom were you speaking? Or do I want to know?"

John considered briefly, then shook his red-golden head. He was taller than Rigby, and almost ethereally handsome… but deep down inside, not that different.

"I don't think you do, Captain. What WorldGov doesn't know, won't hurt them, or get me arrested. Let's just call Jaeger a friend and leave it at that. He's disabled the local camera network, and he's helping us look for Kayo."

That warmed Rigby up even further, almost provoking a smile.

"Your sister's quite a girl, Mr. Tracy," he enthused. "Not just beautiful, but full of life and energy… _power,_ really. Great sense of humour, too. Like nothing I've ever seen. No one I've ever met."

John stifled a laugh.

"She's a stubborn pain in the ass," he corrected. "But she's my sister, a Tracy… and we'll do whatever it takes to bring her home."

Rigby sobered back up again, thinking. The tunnels were wide enough for four men to walk abreast, he noticed; their ceilings just beyond full-stretch reach, with light panels spaced every ten feet or so. No dust, evident air-circulation and plenty of side passages, some of them leading to rooms. Lots of dark, shut-off cameras, too; behind embedded perma-glass bubbles. The place was maintained. Not deserted, although he couldn't see who was watching.

John chose their path, seeming to follow a faint red glow from some of those light panels. Biting his lip, Wayne decided that he hadn't noticed a thing, and that "Mr. Tracy" was simply using his wrist-comm to scan for the missing girl. Safer, that way.

They'd been traveling for around fifty minutes, when a sudden message came through. Directly in front of them lay a broad T-junction, both branches angling upward, to west and east. One of its cameras hummed to life as they paused at the intersection. Lifting and turning to face them, the camera projected a life-sized holographic image of Evan Kane, the Mechanic.

"Tracy," he said, amber eyes flicking to Rigby, once, and then contemptuously away. "You're wasting your time. Not that I care, but whatever f*cks up the Kyranos works for me, and they were stupid enough to get my attention, again. Ross Island, bearing 3 degrees east of due south, at 12,000 feet. Vector-line 27. Do whatever you want. Makes no difference to me."

Then, just like that, the image vanished, leaving the camera to droop on its mount like a wilting mechanical flower.

"Mr. Tracy…?" prompted Wayne. But John was already moving.

"Back to the surface, Captain," he snapped. "Fastest route possible. I'm summoning Thunderbird Shadow."


	18. Chapter 18

Wish that there was less going on this world. Wish there was a real International Rescue. Thanks, guys, for reading and for your reviews. Will respond after supper, I promise. Just been a heck of a week, y'know?

 **18**

 _In a secret network of catacombs, hidden far beneath Japan's serene landscape-_

That message had no sooner been delivered, John Tracy's command no sooner barked in response, than chaos erupted, right there in the echoing tunnels. With a sound like ripping paper… or maybe a very large wildfire… whole sections of the dark tunnel wall peeled away, converting in slow-motion to rocky-skinned, lumbering… people? Hard to say, as they kept changing shape; growing jagged, hooked blades and gritty, knobbed tentacles.

Captain Rigby had been stationed on Mars Base… he'd battled fierce pirates, out in the distant asteroid belt… but never encountered anything, ever, like _this._ In his IR recruit uniform, he had no weapons. Not so much as a jack-knife or toothpick. Well, he still retained a Marine's primary tools; his brain, quick reflexes plus (fingers-crossed) regeneration. Meanwhile, Tracy had jaw-dropping strength; part suit, part himself, along with a stubborn refusal to die.

The astronaut called out in 'Doitch', as ten or twelve of those shape-shifting nightmares rattled off the rock walls, filled out and then shuffled toward them; joints grinding powder with every step. This time, Rigby didn't protest the use of foreign language. Any port in an ion-storm, and to heck with Unity.

Flinty blades and twisted, crystal-flecked ropes shot past and between the two men, seeming to slow and turn weirdly red. Wayne had noticed something similar back at the hospital, just after Kitty vanished. Now, it happened again, this time with a glowing scarlet line showing up in midair, emitting deep, throbbing pulses that might have been speech. At least, Tracy seemed to think so.

The Marine produced an intelligent sound. Something like,

"Urr…?"

…as he dodged a half-frozen crap storm of razor-tipped tentacles and snapping, big-toothed stone heads.

"Rigby!" called the astronaut, turning partway around. "We need to go. This is a lot to hold onto, even for Jaeger. They're reducing available power and cutting off routers."

They?

"Copy that," Wayne responded, saving that question for later. Discovered the hard way that brushing up against one of those all-mouth bowling ball heads _hurt,_ just like something had struck him, at bullet-speed. "This, uh… this is a normal day, for you?" he blurted, weaving his way through that syrup-slow mob. "I mean, Chaos Crew, rogue nanites, exploding hospital wards and… and _these?"_

Tracy shrugged, giving the Marine a hand past something with bulging stone muscles and teeth like a giant buzz-saw.

"What's 'normal'?" he answered, adding, "No, Rigby. My ideal day starts and ends in space. Wish I was up there, now… Only, crap keeps happening, and I've got a sister to locate. If you mean, ' _is this what I can look forward to, if I get involved with Tanusha',_ then, yeah; it's pretty average. Day at the park, Rigby. You get used to it."

(When the universe keeps pouring sludge, you develop a taste for the flavour, he meant.)

By this time, they'd got through the worst of that shambling, animate rockslide. Had to flat out run, after that. Wayne didn't have time to notice much beyond his own harsh breathing, racing footfalls and heartbeat, but he did see that Tracy was having some kind of problem with his golden uniform sash. On a list of '1 to oh, crap', though, equipment malfunction rated a weak 4.

There were rock-wall people popping out _everywhere,_ and the time factor thing between those murderous giants and the two fleeing men kept decreasing. Sooner or later, they were going to get caught. Wayne cracked a rib brushing past a huge, rocky fist, and John wasn't looking much better. On the bright side, the creatures weren't very fast, nor did they seem smart enough to switch to a more limber form. Spent too much time in the tunnels, maybe?

At last, the two men reached another grey metal staircase; twisting away into darkness and dust.

"Get up there, Captain," John ordered. "Thunderbird Shadow is cloaked and right overhead, in an old anime theme park. You'll have to break open some doors to get out."

"What about you?" Wayne objected, fighting to catch his breath. The Titian-haired astronaut shook his head, not even panting after their flat-out two-mile run.

"Don't worry about me. I've, um… got some issues to resolve, first. Be up in a second."

Wayne scowled, on the teetering border of mutiny.

"Mr. Tracy," he said, "the last time somebody ordered a separation, she got kidnapped and replaced by one of _those_ things. You'll forgive me if I object to your suggestion on the grounds that I have no earthly idea what's going to climb up after me, this time."

They stared at each other for a moment; ice-blue eyes slamming hard against ocean-green ones. Then,

"That's fair," John admitted. "But I'll ask you to step away, and not make any sudden moves, please. Just a hunch. Play along."

Confused, Rigby nodded, backing into… and a few steps up on… that faintly humming steel staircase.

"Far enough?" asked the stocky, blond captain.

"I dunno. Maybe," said John. "Be ready to run. I've unlocked Shadow to your pilot code, just in case something goes wrong. Don't try to help, if it does. Just get the h*ll out of Dodge, and tell them what happened, back home."

The astronaut backed away down the tunnel, despite all the crunching and grinding noises coming from that direction. Then, putting both gloved hands to his oddly heavy, malfunctioning uniform sash, John tugged it off over his head in one swift motion. Tried to drop the thing, but the sash somehow wrapped itself around one of his arms; that still messed-up left.

Well, _sh*t._ Of all the times to be right. Before, he'd wondered. Now, he was sure. With Rigby looking on and Jaeger barely maintaining a time differential (through next to no routers, at all) John said,

"What are you?"

…and once again tried to let go. Grunted in genuine shock when the sash started converting. First to a coil of wire; then to a young, nearly naked and shuddering child; to Kayo, then some kind of shadow of John, himself. After that, the shapes got mixed up; kaleidoscoping right into each other.

Skin like yellow plastic insulation with black print. Eyes green and wide as TinTin's. Sash-like pockets at both sides and its narrow, heaving chest. Rough, longish black hair. His own basic face shape, but smaller and screwed up in fear.

It crouched on the tiled floor in a pool of chilly overhead lighting, still gripping tight to John's arm.

"Not diiiie," it hissed at him. "Not want to die."

Two thoughts pushed their way through John's tired mind at that. First: _Dammit, my sash._ Second: _It's not dangerous._ Could've sliced him in half or strangled him any number of times. Instead, it had simply clung tight, shifting shape several times to keep up with him. Yeah.

"Rigby, get out of the way," he said to the startled and speechless Marine, who just about backflipped off of those stairs; landing with a thud and wide-eyed scramble. Then, indicating the way up, he added, "Go on. Take off. Find an animal shape and hide yourself. Time up there isn't screwed up, so you'll need to be careful."

It stared a moment longer, through Kayo's big eyes. Then the thing shifted again, becoming a gold and black bird. Had a few yellow feathers mixed in; like tattered plastic electrical insulation. With a guttural, rasping cry, the bird hopped once, then spread its wings and fluttered on upward. If it could manage a bug-shape, John figured, locked doors shouldn't pose much of a problem.

In the meantime, their welcoming party had gotten much closer. Despite the crowd's approach, John gave his former passenger a slow ten-count. Then, he said,

"Let's go, Captain. We've got a plane to catch." _Without his Goddam equipment, except for the wrist-com and Jaeger._

Well, it could have been worse, John told himself, following Rigby up those clanging and rattling stairs. He could have been missing his head. Sometimes, you just had to keep a sense of perspective. And, right now, all that mattered was finding Kay. He hadn't heard, yet, about Ridley.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Still trapped in a fast-shredding nightmare-_

That stone wall locked tight for a few awful seconds, smothering breath and preventing all motion. Then it blinked, like an interrupted video, showing (just for an instant) the inside of a medical stasis tube. She'd climbed into one of those, once, trying to dodge boarding school. She knew what they looked like, and came almost fully awake.

Then the brief glimpse of reality ended; like someone had slammed shut a book. Tanusha was once more back in her rocky prison; not inside of a beeping, blinking, disinfectant-sharp coffin. After a second, she had trouble recalling that flash of reality, because something else happened.

As Tanusha staggered away from the cold, dark wall, fighting for equilibrium, her captor returned. Like always, he appeared from seemingly nowhere, from the direction the girl wasn't facing. Announced himself by speaking her name. Still tall, dark-haired and terribly handsome, with green eyes much like her own. Still dressed in boots and a close-fitting black bodysuit, covered in crawling glass spiders.

All of this might have caught more of the girl's attention, except that he'd brought along somebody else; a small boy, around two or three years old, with sunny blond hair and big, sky-blue eyes. The toddler was dressed in red shorts, sandals and a blood-stained little white tee-shirt. He clutched a stuffed bear tight to his body, as though his toy could somehow protect him. The boy was crying, Tanusha noticed; hiccupping with fear, pain and confusion.

A name fluttered at the edge of her consciousness. Something… something with an 'A', she was sure of it. The little boy's tear-filled eyes widened when he saw her. He reached out one chubby arm, the one that still held his teddy.

"Tin-bin…!" he whispered pleadingly. "Tin-bin!"

Tanusha started hurriedly forward, but the man froze her in place, jerking her… her _little_ _brother?_ …roughly away. There was already a bruise forming on the child's soft cheek, she saw, just below his right eye.

Whatever he'd hoped to accomplish, all that her captor succeeded in doing was waking Tanusha all the way up, and unleashing hell.


	19. Chapter 19

Please forgive a brief interlude. Feeling emotional, I guess. Thanks, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Thunderbird Shadow, Guest and Creative Girl. Your reviews mean a great deal.

 **19**

 _Proxima B, ever facing a violent, unstable red dwarf-_

There was exactly one road on that tidally-locked, blistered planet. Running through canyons and tunnels wherever possible, 'Route 1-A' led straight as an arrow from East Pole to West; from endless day to perpetual shadow, passing Twilight on the way.

Tunnels and canyons were a good thing, see, because that gale never slackened and never once changed direction; screaming hurricane-fierce from the dark, frozen west. Out here, snow couldn't settle, except on the leeside of towering cliffs and huge boulders.

Caleb had never seen or heard anything like that wind. Even in their heavily armoured, radiation-proof terrain crawler, he could feel its ferocious attack. Sometimes (no lie) the whole dang vehicle rocked; half-tipping whenever a savage gust slashed underneath and lifted its treads from the magnetized pavement.

There were enough ancient wrecks twisted up on the side of the road to prove what could happen when drivers got careless. In the high, rocky canyons it wasn't so bad. Out on the plain, they had massive dura-steel windbreaks and force shields to defend them, for all the good _that_ did.

Once, Caleb's cousin had "borrowed" his dad's new aircar and invited some friends along for a joyride. Hadn't bothered telling them all that he didn't know how to fly… And this trip was nearly as bad. At least Foln was adult and had his license, unlike Steve. Had to trust that the Security Officer's experience would pull them through, Caleb figured.

He did his best to sight-see and stay relaxed, while Zed and Yona (who didn't get out much) shrank back on their couches, wide-eyed as deer. There wasn't that much to look at, really. No floating billboards, street signs or regular oncoming traffic. (Because who had anywhere to go?) Only mechanized farm crawlers passed them to the right, bearing nutrient broth and protein powder from Twilight.

Nice scenery, though, if barren, rocky and windswept was, like, your thing. Driving west made that boiling curse of a sun cross the sky from zenith to dusk, except when they stopped halfway to fuel up. Not like an Earth-style antigrav charge station. This one dipped below ground, for added safety.

Caleb climbed out to help Foln, Zed and Yona, because he didn't want to seem nervous… but stepping outside was a definite gut-check; took firm, sixty-foot wave-ride resolve to do it. Their crawler had rumbled into a tunnel drilled through a range of low hills, where the wind's insane shriek fell to a thin, keening whine.

They got pushed around some, hooking up power-feed cables, but nothing like out on the surface. And hey, there was a potty and wide scenic overlook window, plus a vending machine selling something like candy and soda. Old as crap, probably, but frickin' ambrosia, after a day and a half of munching on food bricks.

The soda's tang had more to do with fermentation than bubbles, and it left him sort of giddy, but Caleb wasn't complaining. It tasted like nuclear cherry-carrots… with maybe some bacon squeezed in.

Anyways, he got a selfie at the overlook window with Yona and Zed, while Foln shook his head and timed their vehicle's power-draw.

"Is taking longer, every cycle," he said (shouted, actually, over the gale's funneled, mad-woman cry). "Some are to saying that is failing, the powerplant, but there are being no tools or knowledge to fixing."

Well, Caleb had proven that he could field-strip and reassemble Thunderbird 4's main thruster, under the worst conditions the sim could throw at him… but an alien powerplant? Buoyed by fermented soda, the young man took a chance.

"Is it in Twilight?" he yelled back, as his overlarge coat ballooned around him, dragging Caleb several steps forward across the stone floor. Dang, he'd thought the Santa Ana was bad…!

Foln nodded in response to his question, keeping a weather eye on the big, sand-pitted crawler's power gauge.

"Is yes, Cabe-Meester. There is to being a station there. It was to being a posting of great honour, but is no one now who is having the skill."

Caleb could understand why, if they spent all their time in VR. Who wanted to study boring old repair manuals, when there were monsters to catch and adventure to seek?

"I'll have a look," he promised, at the top of his straining lungs. "No guarantees, yo, but if it's something simple, well… I used to do maintenance on mom's air-van… plus Gordon an' Virgil taught me some stuff… Mr. Brain, too. I might be able to fix, like, a loose cable, or something."

He just couldn't seem to stop claiming miracles. That, and hoping for Kaise. Maybe he'd find her at Twilight, squeezing up food cubes and nutrient jelly? No way to tell till he got there, or…

Reflexively, Caleb's brown eyes slid to Yona's gear bag, where she kept her VR headband. He could see Kaise… talk to and be with her… anytime he wanted to, through Proxima's global sim. Except that it wouldn't really be _her._ Just his own wishes, given gorgeous body and voice.

The substitute aquanaut shook his head, wondering how that crap had even got started. Shoot, man; when fantasy was a better bet than solving your own dang problems, turn out the lights and go home. Game… no, _life…_ over.

Yeah. Foln 'd had to show his badge and submit to a retinal scan to get fuel. Now, he did it again to raise the pit-stop's gate, letting them crawl back out of the tunnel and onto the road. There really was no escape, Caleb realized, and nowhere to go, if you did. Proxima B's surface would kill you in less than an hour. There was only one road, with scanning posts, everywhere. Would a distant transport booth prove any better?

Meh. He might have started to worry, except that the optimistic recruit harboured a secret belief in his own awesome luck and amazing good looks. He'd make it work 'cause he had to for Kaise, that's all… and that's all it took to keep Caleb focused and working. More than enough to make him move mountains.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere, around the same time, at a very different location-_

Ever get that feeling, like you're being watched? Not a service bot or a camera lens; actual eyes in somebody's face, scoping you out; deciding whether to run, pull a trigger, or talk. Yeah, so, Alan was getting that feeling right the heck _now._

He and Pip were still in the frozen control centre; she wandering around in search of a signal, Alan trying like crazy to boot up the blue-screened main system. They might've made a racket when they moved all those dead people aside and found stuff to cover them up with. That scraping and bumping noise might've brought someone out of their hiding place to come have a quick, worried look. Question was who, and how did they feel about guests? You know, in general?

Very quietly, over his helmet comm, Alan whispered,

"Hey, Pip?"

"Yeah, A-T?" she replied, after a short burst of static from all of that channel-switching.

"Don't get too far away, and don't be real obvious, but turn around and check your life-scan. Somebody's _here,_ by the door." There was only one. Being shot-up and twisted, it didn't close anymore.

"Uh-huh… I've been picking it up, on and off, like the source is partially shielded. Thought my scanner was glitching. Want me to go take a…"

"NO," Alan cut in, wishing he had more than just magnetic boot-soles and a plasma cutter by way of equipment. "I'm, uh… I'm closer. Right there, practically."

"Bullcrap. You think I'll get hurt," she accused, turning around to start back, her boots going _click-click_ on the dusty stone floor. "Whoever's outside is all alone, Alan. For who knows how long? Let me try, okay? I'm a girl. I might seem less threatening."

Piper could've been right, but in that chamber of dry-frozen corpses and ancient tragedy, it was tough to feel hopeful or safe. Alan refused to take any chances. He hurried his pace, managing to beat Pip to the battered and half-open grey metal door. Their twin helmet lamps bathed it in warm molten gold, almost like sunshine.

He saw the words ' **CAUTION! AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY!'** riddled with laser burns. Glimpsed a shadow that twisted away, as the blip on his HUD flickered and vanished.

"Shoot! Scared him off!" Al complained, wondering whether to follow. "Think we oughta…?"

"Give chase? Negatory, Big Cheese-Wheel. Got all we can handle, in here. People are dying, cell by cell, because their power's failing. Our visitor's probably curious and doesn't know what to think. So, let's leave a gift-y and get back to work. I got a package of PB&J crackers… what've you got?"

"Uh…" Al checked his exterior uniform sash. "A couple of Gordon's celery crunch bars, and one of Grandma's chocolate-chip cookies, for breaking through cockpit windows. Better leave that one out, if we actually want to make friends."

Piper chuckled, having experienced Mrs. Tracy's weapons-grade cooking, before. Reaching across, she took the wrapped crunch bars from Alan.

"At least it wasn't her patented three-bean-and-whipped-cream casserole," said the girl, leaning over to set their offering onto the floor, just on the other side of that pried-apart doorframe. "Our spy would take one bite and never come back."

Alan wanted to hug her again; this tall, lanky, purple-haired girl who totally got it, fitting right into his team and his heart. Smiling through the helmet glass, he reached a hand forth, palm facing outward. She pressed her own against his, smiling back. They couldn't interlace fingers in bulky space armour, but hearts could do whatever they wanted, right?

"Know what's funny?" he said, all of a sudden.

"What?" Piper asked, cocking the head inside of her helmet.

"I think I love you, Pip."

Her deep blue eyes got all wide and her breath caught.

"Really? I mean… I mean… _why?_ I'm just _me._ 'Course I love you… how could anyone not? Duh! But… but…"

"But wherever I am, and whatever I'm doing, if you're there, I got all that I need, forever," he told her, meaning every word of it.

Found out first hand that even in -4 degree cold, you could lift up your face plates and kiss. Sideways, kinda-sorta, and then bust out laughing and get back to work.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, in the infirmary, very far in the past-_

Her shoulder still hurt like h*ll, because she wouldn't accept any sleepy-time happy drugs. Instead, Emma Kraft sat in a bedside recliner, cuddled close to the man of her heart, Virgil Tracy.

He was being very careful of her stitches, embracing her like something made out of delicate paper or glass. Ordinarily, this would've bugged the sh*t out of her, but Emma was feeling upset. Like she'd done something wrong. Made a possibly fatal mistake.

Over and over, inside of her head, she could hear Ree offering to just check out a shuttle and fly them both out to the Island. Could also hear herself saying 'no', turning O'Bannon's suggestion into a dumb joke.

Now, her best friend was lying passed out in a recovery bed, sleeping off emergency micro surgery on her punctured lung and damaged liver. Chances were good that Ree would pull through, but… what if she _didn't?_ What if Kraft's own stupidly flippant decision had been the key that allowed a fake pilot and God knows what else onto the Island?

Couldn't say that to Taz, though. Just let him think she was tired and worried, not responsible for every d*mn bit of this. For maybe half-killing O'Bannon. See… in command, you made choices, and sometimes people got hurt. Part of the job and you accepted all that, when they pinned on those oakleaves and eagles. Still sucked, though. Still made you want to tear out that weak, aching part of yourself and stomp it to atoms.

Burying his handsome face in the brownish-blonde hair at the top of her head, Virgil said,

"Not your fault, Angel."

Emma stiffened, wondering how in the h*ll he'd…

"I know what you're feeling right now, because it's happened to me. I've had to sit here, staring at Gordon and thinking: what if I'd done something different? Been quicker, or just told him 'no'? What if I'd been a _brother,_ instead of a Goddam teammate?"

Emma's hands clenched into fists, catching up some of the cloth of his Real-Tree print tee-shirt. Didn't say anything, though. Couldn't. Too soon. Closed her eyes against the room's harsh, chilly lights and just listened.

"Know what I realized, Hon?" he asked, in his deep, soft voice.

Em shook her head, no; not looking up.

"I realized that sometimes the right decision isn't the painless one. We make the best judgement we can, given the facts we have at the time. O'Bannon would tell you that, herself. She's a commander, too."

There might have been a few tears, but she buried them against his muscular chest, letting the tee-shirt soak them away. Taz was still talking her through it; his warm embrace and deep, quiet voice cutting right through her pain and reserve.

"If you hadn't been there, Angel, she would've died."

"If I hadn't been there, _Ridley_ would have been flying!" Emma shot back, releasing the acid tangle of blame at the heart of her. "I told her no, because she'd had a few drinks, and…"

"And it's not safe to fly with alcohol in your system. Twenty-four hours from bottle to throttle. S.O.P., Emma. Everyone knows that. I'd have done the same thing. I _have,_ when Scott's downed a couple of beers, and the alert's rung out."

He was right and she knew it, but nothing was going to be better till Ree woke up, howling for f*cking egg salad and Mai-Tais. She said,

"Don't know how you can stand it, Taz, with family. Love every d*mn one of my crew. Even Rodriguez, d*mn his sly ass… but they signed on. They know the risks and swore the oath. Your brothers? Your sister and dad?"

Virgil took a deep breath.

"It's what we do, Em. It's how we make a very small difference, a couple of folks at a time."

Against his wet tee-shirt, eyes closed, Emma smiled.

"Sometimes a big difference," she corrected. "There were more than eight-hundred people in Pacifica City, and you got to them all, Taz. They're alive, and the people who love them aren't crying, right now."

He nuzzled the top of her head again.

"That's what keeps us going, Angel. At three AM, when you're dead-tired and already beat to h*ll… that's what makes you get up and answer another d*mn call. Because someone needs help, and nobody else can get there, in time."

And if maybe, someday, he didn't come back? Was loss a risk she was willing to face, for the man she would never stop loving? There was only one answer. The same one she'd given when he'd placed that ring on her finger. Yes. Come what may… yes.


	20. Chapter 20

Almost too short to dignify with the name "chapter", but it seemed to stand by itself, and I'll write more, tomorrow, if time and life allow. =) Thanks for your patience.

 **20**

 _Fighting, then falling-_

When she awoke, it was all at once, in a frenzy of psionic power that erupted out of her head, out of that life-support tube and out of the speeding plane. She didn't think. Didn't plan, and certainly didn't control what came next.

Had no identity, yet, and no accurate memories; just pain, rage and a terrible need to lash out. With a wild, tearing screech… the rending of metal and snapping rivets… first the tube, then the plane came apart all around her.

Bits of hurtling shrapnel slashed at her tumbling body and face. Part of a wing and engine fell past, then the tail. Fuel ignited, creating a huge and blossoming fireball. A beacon, for anyone out there to see. Wind hammered and howled. Rain and clouds whipped by, but she paid no attention to weather or plummeting fall.

As her dazed pilots changed shape and swooped off, she reached out with her mind to the one who'd imprisoned her. To his lying, sadistic, tormenting psyche, wrapped in its smug, handsome shell. Force born of rage and anguish and hate tore right through Nikorr's defenses, closing tight like the jaws of a leopard.

For just an instant, she had him there, clutched in her power. Felt him think: _Yes. That's it, at last._ _That's_ _who you are. Come._

He was fast in her grip but not fighting it, as though he had nothing whatever to fear, and all was going precisely according to plan. For a moment their minds locked, as the pilot-things swooped around for another pass, screaming like gulls at a landfill. He'd sent them back to reclaim her. To steal her away from the loving family she saw in his mind.

 _'No,'_ the girl thought quietly, tonelessly. _'I_ _won't_ _. I'm a Tracy.'_

…and Tracys didn't kill. Not even bloodthirsty scum like her cousin, Nikorr Kyrano. Tightening her grip, Tanusha stabbed at his basal mind, hard enough to bludgeon him senseless, leaving just basic functions intact. Away in his Antarctic stronghold, her captor dropped to the floor like a sack of loose parts.

Tanusha just let herself fall, tumbling downward through cold, misty rain-spattered darkness. Great talons took hold, then, snatching her out of the air like a falconer's lure. She was borne roughly upward, then dropped once again, to be snatched by the other shrill, diving bird-thing. Might've thrown up a few times. Didn't scream.

They were trying to disorient the girl. Aiming to frighten her into submission. Only, she'd already seen the worst that could happen, and two half-mad shape-shifters playing like gannets weren't it.

She could take hold of their hot, fierce, protean minds. Twist them around so they thought they were flying her south, still; watching the ocean and sky through their staring red eyes. Drove them upward, out of the rain and into a frosty landscape of silver moonlight and towering clouds. Riding a loose cage of claws, sometimes tossed back and forth from one bird to the other, Tanusha turned north.

At least, until a warm sudden presence was there, searching hard. She didn't… for a moment, the girl could not remember his name. Just learning to ride, sharing a sandwich, wearing a cast-off baseball shirt and cuddling close. Much of her memory came back in a blizzard of scenes after that, too fast to take hold of.

Then Thunderbird Shadow appeared; gliding up through moonlit and streaming clouds like a sleek, dark boulder parting the waves. The shape-changers shrieked like ravenous harpies. Would have attacked the black plane, but the girl simply turned off their conscious minds, leaving only a pair of semi-reptilian beasts to flap away, puzzled.

Shadow followed, below. Its canopy opened, as Tanusha dropped from the sky and into the waiting arms of two men who loved her; who'd searched for and found her, out of that whole, enormous dark sky.


	21. Chapter 21

A bit more, though I promise to slow down again. Don't mean to wear out your inbox. :) Thanks, Echo and Tikatu.

 **21**

 _Tracy Island, present time and unsettled circumstance-_

Others were back in the 'house', healing their fellows or taking sustenance. Not Kane and not Beech. The Mechanic was hunting, again. The Chaos-adept merely watched and stayed out of his way, as Kane prowled the airstrip; circling that battered and torn-apart mail shuttle.

His hornet drone had ceased to report, after a brief sensory flash of tumbling darkness, collision and cold, angry water. None of that should have finished his mech, meaning that at least one _kanni_ was loose on the Island. Possibly more.

…and the Mechanic intended to track down and slaughter every last one.

He was on highest alert, scanning his surroundings in every part of the spectrum, sifting the air for the Hiro's particular scent when in 'form', as they put it. Everything that he looked at, from thin crescent moon, scattered wavery puddles and fast-streaming clouds to Cody Beech and the mail plane, was briefly centered in target-lock and surrounded by text. Useful, but Kane hunted for pleasure, mostly through instinct.

It was a warm, gusty night, with fretful spatters of rain. The surrounding jungle was largely silent, as though its inhabitants sensed that something had gone very wrong. Nothing could shut up the ocean and wind, though. Kane tuned them out, scanning for something quite other.

He proceeded warily, because the _kanni_ could fire 'darts' that disrupted cellular structure; part of their own shape-shifting powers, but destructive to anyone not born a Hiro. How the h*ll they gained and lost mass, he hadn't yet solved, but the process left energy tracks, and those he could follow right to their source.

Quietly, moving lightly for so massive a cyborg, Kane approached the downed shuttle. Its cockpit was shredded; a torn, ragged wound in faint moonlight. The hull was peppered with holes, where his mechs had chewed their way in on approach. Mantis crouched on the shuttle's sensory node, keeping watch and streaming him even more data. Its smaller brethren, the winged ants, were still burrowing into the riddled mail plane, taking bits of this and scraps of that to feed and enlarge Ship. Looked like busy, pale crabs at an ocean-floor carcass. No sense wasting good metal.

"Stay here," he grunted at Beech, with a very slight turn of his tattooed head. "Or, not. Makes no difference to me."

Didn't wait to find out, anymore than he'd told the Tracys what he intended doing. Just fired his jetpack and launched himself into a low partial hover. Rain started up again, triggering his environment shield.

Whatever. He drifted up and into the air, after giving his senses a nano to adjust to that space-proof, transparent layer. Very quietly, using low-power ion thrust, the Mechanic eased over, and then down into, the wrecked shuttle, landing with a very slight _thunk,_ in a three-point ready stance.

Scanned at various magnifications and wavelengths, taking in the scent of rain-washed blood and the energy trace of a mass shift. No… several of them, though the others were smaller and farther within.

Kane rose from his crouch, hearing the deck creak beneath him. More than that. He could _feel_ Beech's power flowing around him; shifting potentials; nudging at fate.

Under the breath mask, Kane smiled just a little, sensing the wind in his face and terrified prey huddled nearby. Also spotted a laser-dot drifting here and there, red and sparkling, amidst all of that tumbled cargo. Ilya and probably Katrin, as well. _Bloody h*ll._ Like he needed an effing…

 _ **CRASH-SCREEEEEECH-**_ _ **SLAM**_ _ **!**_

Fast and sudden, energy flared from somewhere he couldn't see. Part of the bulkhead and jump seats ripped all at once free of the airframe, converting to snapping, stabbing, many-limbed _things._

The Mechanic fired reflexively, blasting his jetpack to gain altitude on the situation. Tore right through the shuttle's overhead, letting in uneasy moonlight and furious drones.

The two _kanni_ tried shifting to bird form, firing silvery force as they leapt. The Mechanic shot back. Mantis had dropped inside, meanwhile, slashing its blade arms. Ilya's rifle stuttered and buzzed, dissecting the unstable wreckage still further, giving their quarry no place to hide.

Kane had a rifle, too. Didn't use it this time; relying instead on the hand-mounted guns in his wristbands as he charged back down into the wreck. For an instant or so, the world was a hell of darts, laser bolts and force blasts. Of psi-torn metal and screeching, fast-shifting _kanni_. One, he obliterated entirely, leaving nothing but atoms. The other twisted and scurried, to be sliced in half by Mantis and blasted with unsteady… probably fired while running… laser-shot. _D*mn disobedient kids._

A moment later, all was silent, but for hissing rain, straining metal, and wind whistling in through a hundred newly-made holes. That, and hurrying footsteps. Kane slammed an armoured boot on the last bit of shape-changer remaining, and fired again, leaving nothing but ash. Beech was halfway up the boarding ramp, shouting questions. The kids, not far behind.

The Mechanic ignored them all, turning his face to the sky and fighting the urge to bellow in triumph; alive and prickling to the ends of his bio-steel fingers. More _Kanni_ were on their way. He could sense them, borne with the Tracys on home-speeding aircraft. Good. Let them come, let _all_ of them rush him, at once. He'd be ready.

Stooping down, Kane swept his hand through the dust of a shape-shifter, brushing it onto his armour, then Beech's face, and his children's as well, when they poured through the hatchway and into that riddled cargo hold. Their kill, their battle as well.

Had no framework for what was inside of him, then, but it felt like a Tracy-thought: _Thanks for the help._

Katrin wanted up, so he lifted the small blonde, feeling her patting and sorting him, inside and out. Ilya's rifle was slung halfway 'round, ready to use, but not in the way of throwing his arms around Kane's armoured waist.

Said Beech gazing at all this with his pale, wolf-like eyes… filled with questions but knowing better than to speculate aloud,

"The accord…"

"F*ck the accord," Kane rumbled. "They started it. I'll shut it down."

Cody dipped his head in assent. He was in this as well, now, up to his neck… just like the innocent Tracys.


	22. Chapter 22

'Allo... me, again. On the bright side, there are only five more days in Spring Break/ Easter Vacation, so I can't keep slinging chapters forever. (Grins feebly...)Edited.

 **22**

 _Under seared Edinburgh, deep within the teeming Kane stronghold-_

No Typical had ever yet passed the doors of the stronghold. If they had, they would not have been able to navigate, for the Kanes were cyborgs, and did not make use of stairways or ladders. Scarcely walked, for the matter of that.

Though the compound was quite large and multi-leveled, its denizens simply jetpacked their way along networks of airshafts and tunnels. Faster, like that

In the center of all this activity (for there were more than a thousand Kanes altogether, most of them female) lay a large, open antigrav chamber. Though spacious, the room was mostly empty; devoted to central command. At its heart hovered the Mother of Cyborgs, linked to her compound and horde through a crackling web-work of force lines and cables.

When attached in this manner, she was not herself. Or, not simply so. She _became_ the stronghold and everyone in it. Their thoughts, their data and actions, all hers. She glowed like a star in this format, retaining almost no separate identity.

Nevertheless, no one needed to tell Madame Kane that a call had been made via Crystal-link. Very suddenly, she just _knew._ Knew, as well, who would speak, though not why. She could have sent an image-response or taken the call right there in her open command chamber, but chose to detach, instead; it being difficult to converse while seeing and acting through so many others.

A moment's thought broke the link, causing those arcs of shimmering power to pull away from her rigid body. The cables came loose, next; unclamping and snaking off through the air.

The Kane was a beautiful woman, but not entirely human. Not anymore. Half of her body was fully cybernetic. The other half riddled throughout with branching, burrowing circuitry. Like all of the Kanes, her biological eye was amber; her skin warm in tone; her hair, dark and straight. On the meat part of her head, at any rate. The other half sported colour-changing fiber optic tresses snaked through with sensors and power cords.

It took her a moment to settle her mind and reclaim herself again, after pulling free of command. Odd, to reduce to one person, so suddenly. To feel so small and _alone._ Each time she detached and woke up, Gail had to believe it all over again. Come to grips with just being one individual. Looking around helped somewhat, letting the Mother of Cyborgs restore her own boundaries.

Several next-ups waited ready around her, all but one of them female. The last (very recently cloned) was a male and quite small. Too young to be given charge of the horde, even briefly. Another, then, because the stronghold had got to be led.

Turning with the slightest flare of her jetpack, Gail Kane faced the eldest candidate, She-below-Evan (batch 38, number 12, only survivor).

"Suzan."

The girl dipped her sleek head and lowered her suddenly eager gaze.

"Madame?"

"You will take command." Not a request, but an honour.

Gail did not expect a reply. She concentrated, shifting those unmoored web-lines and cables from the air to Suzan's slim, part-chromed body. The girl's head lifted proudly as, bit by bit, feed by feed, she became the horde's centre. Its hive-mind. Glowing and stiff, she soon lost herself in the chatter, upkeep and doings of over a thousand beings, along with the stronghold and clone vats.

Gail floated back a bit. Scanned herself on the way, finding her physical limits, tasting the air and enjoying rare privacy. Most of the others had drifted across to hover near Suzan. Watching all this, Gail thought fleetingly of Evan, who should have been here in his sister's place, learning the horde's operation.

He'd been an experiment, that one; created with genetic material dating all the way back to those first, early days, when "volunteers" had been implanted with virus and raw, self-replicating circuits. Most had died horribly, consumed by rapid, mechanical cancer. The first Kane had survived, as had her cousin, a large and stubborn, undisciplined male. The handlers had soon had him killed… but his DNA lived on, preserved in an ancient cryo-tube.

 _This other…_ Gail's biological and laser eye focused hard on the youngest. His gene source had originated elsewhere. Call him a second experiment. One with possibly better results. He had not joined the rest around Suzan, but instead still hovered nearby.

So new, he was nearly all biological; with just sparkles of circuitry deep in those wide, brown eyes and shooting along his pale limbs. Frowning in concentration, the boy jetted unsteadily nearer, for that pack was newly acquired and he hadn't yet mastered the art. Well, he would learn soon enough or be killed in his trials, like so many others before.

"Go," she said to the child, not unkindly. He had not earnt his name yet, but in her mind, Gail called him Eric. "Your place is attendance to the Central One."

She spoke half in comm, half aloud, shifting from metallic voice processor to e-wave, reflexively. An order, but the boy did not heed it, floating still closer to ask,

"Can I come with you?"

Gail blinked, astounded. A… question? After command had been given? If she'd had any sense, Gail would have destroyed him at once. Would have had his small body fed back into the clone vats to dilute that foreign strain, before the next batch. _Should_ have, maybe, but didn't.

"No," she said. "It is here you will learn what it means to take charge of our people. Through the thoughts of others, you will gain what you need to survive. Do not ask again, or defy directive, Little One. Go."

He looked at her, seeming confused by a perfectly clear and normal commandment.

"Yes, Madame," he whispered and commed, once again breaking protocol. Having been ordered, one simply _went._ Not drifting slowly backward, looking her way as though more were expected.

It was in a disturbed frame of mind, then, that the Kane rode an up-shaft out to the crystal room; soaring within and blocking surveillance, because the call was meant to be private. One of the crystals was lit, glowing a softly insistent light green.

Gail lowered the thrust on her jetpack, coming to a gentle touchdown, toes first, on the brushed-metal floor. Two swift, clanging strides brought her close to the circle of gems. There, she reached for and tapped the green one, making the sound of silver on emerald.

"Speak," she said.

In the crystals' centre rose a large holographic display cylinder. This now took spark and lit up, forming the image and voice of her one-time friend, Mikah Kyrano. Black haired and green eyed, with streaks of grey at both temples, Mikah was a level-2 psion.

"Lady Kyrano... I presume to congratulate?" Gail probed, for none but heads of family had use of the crystal-net.

"No, Madame Kane," Mikah told her. "I have not seized control from my son. He is… recovering, after an altercation with his cousin, the daughter of Zoltan. I am acting as regent." Then, changing her tone, she added, "These sons of ours…!"

Gail Kane's face was not well constructed for showing emotion. Still, thinking of Evan and the other, smaller one, she managed a swift, painful smile.

"They would tax Those-Above, Mikah. Is there a way to end this strife? May we return to accord?"

Said Mikah Kyrano, rewarding that very brief face-stretch with one of her own,

"That is exactly why I wish to talk. You do not regard the 'Mechanic' as having gone rogue, I take it?"

Gail shook her head, once. Folding both metal arms over her slim, gleaming chest, Madame Kane replied.

"No. He acts without my approval, Mikah, but still he is mine. One of my people. As such, Evan is shielded under my will and my power."

Mikah sighed.

"I thought as much… and I truly do understand. Nikorr's doings are full of impatience and greed. He would have all, at this moment, without having earned it. Yet, he is my son and those who have harmed him must pay." Then, more hesitantly, "He has allied himself with the shape-changing Hiros; seeking, I think, to bring down and destroy the Tracys, together with…"

"My son," Gail supplied, using the same word that Mikah had. This caused a sudden stir of emotion inside of her. "Evan's behaviour makes trouble for all, but he did not break the accord. I will not see him hunted, nor punished for defending himself from attack."

Mikah nodded seriously. Then she said,

"Very well, Gail. We must form a plan and alliance… one that will deal with sneaking _Kanni_ and end this unfortunate trouble. Do you extend your shield to the Tracys, as well?"

Madame Kane hesitated, thinking of the recent gathering, and what had been done there. Slowly, she said,

"They are mixed in blood, Mikah… yet they are true in spirit."

 _"True_? The first Tracy did not join us in slaying our handlers, Gail. He _fled_ , saving none but himself," Mikah reminded her, green eyes gone narrow and hard. "They lie with Typicals!"

"As do the Beeches," cut in Madame Kane. "Sometimes your folk and Harris, as well. This Tanusha… was her female parent not half-blood?"

Mikah looked away for a moment, then back again, once she'd got herself under control.

"This is not spoken of. Zoltan went outside of tradition and decency. He paid for his foolishness, as did the woman he spawned with. The Tracys are other: hand in glove with those who would bring us back into "service"."

"Yet we agreed to consider them a probationary Family, with Jeffery as their lord. I would not go back on my given, sealed word, Mikah. But… speaking of the World Council… was Nikorr controlling their chancellor, or has Shaw been slain and replaced with a Hiro?" It seemed advisable now, to open a new line of talk.

Mikah's head cocked.

"The specifics are hazy, as Nikorr's mind has been deeply traumatized… but I believe that Shaw was being controlled from here, with much of his key staff replaced by duplicates, who often spoke in his stead. Various useful relations were captured, as well. Dead by now, for all I know. The Hiros are not very patient with prisoners."

The Mother of Cyborgs was quiet a moment. Then, she said,

"I would have three things of our agreement, Mikah. Firstly, no harm comes to my son, or yours."

"Understood and accepted," agreed the acting Kyrano. "…though I will need to soothe Nikorr, perhaps against his will. What else?"

"Second, that the Tracys are left in peace to pursue their… 'rescue' activities. Their continued presence out among Typicals may prove helpful to us… as it did when the object from space threatened our planet."

Mikah grimaced, finding the thought hard to swallow. Finally, she managed a grudging nod.

"Very well. No harm to the mixed-bloods… for now. Next?"

"That we begin sending the young of our families, one to the other, in the same way that so many have joined the Tracys."

Mikah's breath caught.

"Tanusha was _stolen,_ " she growled. "Yet… she also chooses to stay. _Fights_ to remain with the mongrels… who now have a Beech and Dos Santos, as well. What do they mix in their water, on that pathetic small rock of an island?!"

Another smile flitted across the Kane's face, this one bringing droplets of blood like small ruby gems to the join between flesh lip and metal.

"Hormones and reproductive stimulant," Gail suggested, feeling circuitry grow to cover and heal up that split. "Evan, too, has been drawn to them. Perhaps they will alter his temperament."

Mikah snorted.

"Or, he will simply grow weary and slaughter them all, saving me the trouble. For my part, I wish an end to hostilities between our families, Gail. You _must_ control the Mechanic."

Smile gone away like a reached-for mirage, Madame Kane nodded.

"He will cease causing trouble. As for the Hiros…"

"Their needs are simple. More genetic material, fewer Typicals. They have captured a device that creates detailed virtual reality. Something they gained by killing and replacing some worthless government scientist. This is of interest, as is the transport disk. I will share the technology, Gail, as a sign that my word is good. With it, we can outwit and outpace the sons of our handlers, may they all be eternally cursed."

Those first psions had suffered tremendously, too. Many going quite mad before learning to deal with their forced evolution.

"It is well," said the Mother of Cyborgs. "Send the schematics, Mikah. I shall contact Lord Hiro and Evan. You heal and counsel the Kyrano."

A good, well intentioned plan… except that it was now just exactly too late.


	23. Chapter 23

Thanks Echo and Tikatu! Edited more than that.

 **23**

 _Tracy Island, near dawn-_

The phrase "it's been a really long day" didn't come close to covering the fix they were in. Missing folks, new baby/ small child, injured friends… and now gunfire down on the airstrip?! Sally Tracy was a level and God-fearing woman, but all of this ruckus would've made an angel take cover and cuss.

She'd been talking to Jeffery, who'd about decided to come on down from the station, when sensors detected a battle, outside. Sally closed her blue eyes for a moment, seized hold of the desk and took a very deep breath; doing her best not to scream with vexation.

"On second thought, maybe ya better stay put, Jeffery," she told him, getting up from the desk. "Things 're a mite unsettled 'round here, and I'd like ta keep someone at lookout. Tell ya more once I get out there n' knock a few heads together. Fetch Gordon an' Virgil down ta th' hangars, if ya would, Boy. We got th' Prototype set ta come in, pretty soon."

…and God alone knew what that would stir up. At least Brains had finally managed to shut down them nanites, and Lee would soon be there.

"Yes, Ma," said her son, looking as tired as Sally had seen him since Mars, all them years ago. "I'm on it."

Oughta have left someone minding the desk, but truth was, they was spread mighty thin, already. Scott and Kayo was safe, though… thank God f'r his pack full a' miracles.

Sally cut through the balcony doors and along the outer stairs, passing the quiet, still pool deck on her way down. Dawn was coming; casting a pale silver light over shimmering water, lit faintly blue-green from beneath. Pool gear and furnishings dripped with dew, their colours just starting to show. Out in the jungle, a first few hesitant birds opened their throats. Still nervous, most likely.

This early in the day, Gordon was usually out in the water, swimming his hundred laps. Not today though, too busy downstairs in medical.

"Know what I miss?" Sally muttered to no one at all, grabbing the long metal pool-scoop from its place on the wall. "Blackbirds n' meadowlarks. Ain't seen a redwing blackbird nor meadowlark in donkey's years. Do a body good ta get on back home, one a' these days." But she didn't mean it. Not with most of her family _here,_ in near constant danger.

With the aluminum scoop carried over one shoulder like a net-headed spear, Grandma Tracy stomped on down to the stair-path. Folk was heading up, one of them literally. The Mechanic, who'd no truck whatever with stairs. Jetpack on medium burn, he simply shot up that cliff-face, touching down with a thud on the lava-rock path. Sally scowled, recalling all a' that burnt up carpet and flooring.

"What happened, down there?!" she demanded, shifting her pool-scoop to ready position. The cyborg towered over her; all metal, muscle, tattoos and power. Sally didn't back down.

He folded his arms in the rising sunlight; like an African lion after a hunt, blood on its muzzle, amber eyes sated. You couldn't tame a critter like that, Sally knew. Just accept, kill or cage. In his deep and rumbling voice, the Mechanic said,

"Shape-shifters in the mail shuttle wreck. Two of them. I killed both… with some assistance from others." (This last, like it actually hurt him to say it.)

Sal took another deep breath. Grey half-light was turning to gold now, as the last of that rain cleared away and the sun made ready to heave itself over the ocean.

"Them shape-shifters is people? Intelligent, like you n' me?"

That mattered a lot. Killing wild critters had got to be done, sometimes, if they was into the crops or the henhouse. But killing a person was murder.

"Mmm…" Kane hedged, rubbing at the uneasy join between metal and flesh on one massive arm. "Both, and neither. The young… the _kanni…_ can best hold a form, but they have little experience, and kill without hesitation or forethought. These lay in wait, meaning to slip out and strike. Now, they will not."

Sally's lips thinned and her silvery brows drew together.

"You done a lot f'r this family, an' I ain't forgettin' that, Mr. Kane… but ya can't just go around shootin' whatever you decide's a dang threat. If they hadn't done nuthin', yet…"

"You would prefer to wait until more of your litter were captured or killed?" he cut in, as first Cody, then two young 'uns came right up off them stairs to join him. _More_ kids? Nodding politely at Beech, she snapped,

"No, Mister Kane. I ain't stupid. I just don't hold with killin', is all. Never have. Them shape-shifters coulda been knocked out an' arrested."

"And they would have escaped, as soon as they woke and changed form, Mother-of-Tracys. Once here, once they've made contact, a _kanni_ can imitate anything. Only…"

" _What_?" she demanded, still watching them kids. Boy and a girl; the one maybe six or seven, the other no more 'n a mite. Charlie's age, if that.

"Only, form is not function, for non-biological shapes. They do perfectly well as people, vermin or animals. Can _resemble_ machinery, but not match performance," Kane told her, moving casually to stand between Sal and the two children. Not that they looked very helpless. One of 'em carried a rifle. The other was partway machine. Sally blinked, chasing a thought.

"So… if the autochef ain't workin', it might be one a' them kinnys?"

She could see something glittering, far and away in the sky, over yonder. The Prototype; headed for home. And, all at once, very much, she just wanted Lee. Still loved Grant and always would, mind you… but maybe had room in her heart for one more.

"We gotta get down ta th' hangar," she said, before Kane could reply. "Tell me more on th' way and, ah… interduce y'r two young 'uns, if y'r minded to."

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Five minutes later, up in the cockpit-_

Having gone from the Moon to atmospheric flight, from deep ocean to land and then back to the air again, the Prototype needed a refit. Lee Taylor needed a meal… bed… and a kiss from the prettiest gal on the Island, not necessarily in that order. Tired? H*ll, yeah, he was tired… but the Bird had to land, and he was the most able person aboard. 'Cept for Mike over there, clamped to the copilot's seat.

Glancing over at his white plastic robot companion, Lee drawled,

"Well, Mike, guess it's all over but th' shoutin'."

The robot's head turned to regard him, lens covers sliding around to mimic a skeptical look. A torrent of beeps and chirps streamed forth, in fluid rapid-fire Morse code.

"Fire fight? On the air strip? Anyone hurt? How're Beth an' th' boys?"

Lee was already reaching across the instrument panel, meaning to hammer the comm. Extra worried, because no one was up at the desk, and he was having to call in through Thunderbird 5. Mike and Jeff gave him the rundown, but Taylor was still not convinced. Elliot King… their friendly neighborhood psychotic machine-man… didn't unload f'r no reason.

 _"Spenser!"_ He bellowed, craning his mustached head halfway over one shoulder. "Get y'r ass outta bed an' suit up. Shit's flyin' thick an' fast, out there. 'Scuse th' cussin', Miss Polly. We live in right interestin' times."

Very helpfully, Mike amplified his voice through the Bird's speakers, and bleeped out his curse-words. Scott heard his uncle, who sounded like thundering Zeus over that amplified comm. Woke up more or less ready to go, for a man with weak eyes and bad hearing.

Penelope seemed startled, at first, but quickly got herself sorted. (As one does, when a wealthy, jet-setting supermodel, loved the world over.)

"Dearest," she began, sleeking her golden hair back in an elegant knot. "I must…"

"Did you say that you _couldn't_ marry me, or you _wouldn't?"_ Scott interrupted, striding for the TB1 equipment locker, with Penny trailing behind. Slid down the ladder, palming the hatch-lock to get to his gear. Found a cute, red-and-white teddy bear, which he handed to Lady Penelope. Gift from the grateful hearts of Yokosuka, or something like that.

"It is more complicated than you make it seem, Scott, as you would learn, if there was any time to explain. Briefly: yes, I love you quite madly. _Yes,_ I am willing to marry you, only…"

Scott paused in his changing. Normally, robots did all this for him, on the way to Thunderbird 1. Also, the suit was loose. He'd lost weight.

"Only?" the pilot prompted her, feeling an icy clutch at his gut.

"I must either renounced my name and heritage, or you must accept ennoblement from King Denys, should he deign to offer it. This would mean changing your name as well as your status. The nobility are living monuments to an earlier time, Dearest. We exist because the World Council deems it beneficial to parade certain parts of the past. I must come down, or you up. There is no other way."

Snapping his sash into place, Scott reached for his boots and cable launcher.

"I'm a Tracy," he protested.

"As I am a Creighton-Ward. Unless you are willing to settle for a common law arrangement, wherein I remain officially unwed, yet pledged to you…" She was trying, really, she was; her lovely face glowing with hope and emotion.

But Scott shook his head, gem-blue eyes firm and intent.

"No more lies. No more hiding, Pen. I love you, and I want the whole d*mn world to know that. We'll work this out, Hon. I promise."

Over the comm, Lee remarked cheerfully,

"Might wanna strap down or find sumthin' ta grab hold of, back there. Cap'n 's turned on th' seatbelt signs."

Penny could feel the deck shift beneath her, as the big silver Bird banked home for fodder and stall. Scott escorted her up to a seat in the crew cabin, but wouldn't sit down, himself. Just took hold of a hull brace; legs apart, chin raised. _Men._

Tall, slightly unshaven, muscled like a young god, he was also incredibly thoughtful, having gone back to fetch Sherbert from the flight kennel. Lady Penelope took her wee lad in her arms, murmuring fond, silly nonsense.

" _There's_ Mummy's angel! There's Bertie! Had a nice game with your dinosaur friend, have you, Poppet? Only now you've gone and lost that cunning gold bell! Well, no matter… Mummy and Da will find you another."

She cuddled her fat little pug as they came to the Island, holding him firmly while the aircraft touched smoothly down. Captain Taylor might have had a few "rough edges", but he was an excellent pilot, and they taxied into the hangar without incident. Afterward, though…

XXXXXXXXX

 _The giant hangar bay, a few minutes later-_

Grandma Tracy had mustered as much of a crowd as she could, with threat in the air, invalids needing help, and Thunderbird Shadow still on the way. Virgil was there, with a passel of Maxes, two of the New Crew, the Mechanic, his young 'uns and Sally. They waited up on the shielded balcony overlooking the runway and hangar berth, because the Prototype had been out in space and might be radioactive. In a business like theirs, there was no such thing as too careful. Plus, down in the bay, you might get run over by scurrying service drones.

Anyhow, the outside doors rumbled wide open, letting in sunshine and ocean breeze. About twelve minutes after that, the Prototype's blunt silver nose pushed inside, engine roar cycling down to a very loud whine. Beside Virgil Tracy, the Mechanic grew suddenly tense.

"What's up?" asked the big, dark-haired pilot. "Kane, what's going on? Is something aboard?"

The cyborg shook his head, staring out at the oncoming aircraft. He was scanning; his cyber goggles whirring and clicking as they switched frequencies.

"Too much contamination to be certain," he growled in reply. "I have to get closer."

"I'm coming with you," said Virgil. Josh and Cody were present and moving, as well. Weren't armed, though. "Grandma," the pilot continued, turning to face Sally Tracy, "You stay…"

Completely without warning, the Mechanic cut on his jetpack and smashed through the balcony's shield. Pure luck… or Cody Beech… that no one was blinded by flying perma-glass. Scott had come out on the boarding ramp with Penny and Sherbert. What happened next was pure chaos and yelling and force blasts.

Kane landed hard on the ramp, buckling reinforced metal like cardboard. As Penelope stumbled backward, he tore Bertie out of her arms and then smashed the dog onto the concrete, below. That red-and-white teddy bear and the small, broken pug then exploded with limbs, heads and blades, slashing past Penny and Scott as they tried to impale the Mechanic.

Laser-shot sizzled down from above, along with waves of barely contained psionic force. Scott's vision was blurry. Didn't know who to hit or quite what was happening, but he got Penelope tossed back into the aircraft, right at Lee Taylor and Max. Drawing his cable-gun, he ignored the worst headache he'd ever experienced to take aim at… Penny?

Bruised, cut and wounded, she lifted her arms to him. Kane had his armoured boot on her chest, pinning the frantically squirming young woman tight to the concrete floor.

"Scott, hurry, _please!"_ she cried out to him. "Help me!"

"No!" came an identical voice, this time from behind, in the Prototype. "Scott, I am here where you cast me, with Captain Taylor and Max! Dearest, beware, it is a trap!"

Lee was there in the hatchway, his own laser rifle up and ready for action, Max right beside him. The robot had extended a noisy and glittering cutting tool.

"Ain't nobody gettin' past me n' Mike, Son. Do whut ya gotta. Whut y'r daddy would do, or me."

Scott hesitated, as the other _kanni_ changed shape again, trying to lose itself among Virgil, Cody, Josh and some kids. Grandma was halfway down the stairs with a fire extinguisher.

Scott's head was splitting wide open, it felt like; blood began streaming out of his nose and ears, both. But Dad… Dad wouldn't kill. He'd restrain them.

"Kane, _stop!"_ Scott shouted. Too late.

The Mechanic fired with all that he had, reducing "Penny" to glittering ash, and then shooting that fleeing "Japanese school girl" right in the back. Virgil dove at him, trying to tackle the cyborg, before he could fire again. Kane shoved him hard but didn't shoot.

"I told you, Tracy," he grunted, circling warily. "That the time would come for an end to alliance."

"No," snapped Virgil, stubbornly shaking his throbbing head. "You over-reacted, Kane… made a mistake. You're not…"

"A killer?" supplied the Mechanic, weapons still charged up and ready. Gordon and Horatio had come racing out of the lift by that point, shouting anxious questions. Others tried to approach. Didn't work because Kane, a lord of machines, blocked them with every d*mn mech in the hangar. "But I _am_ , Virgil Tracy. That's what they made me for."

The mortally wounded Hiro twisted and writhed, finally returning to the shape of a young, dark-haired boy. Dumbass… Gordon… knelt down beside it, trying to help. No use, as he'd shot the thing straight through its spine.

"Nobody made you, Kane. You were born. You're a person. You can choose your own path," Virgil insisted, seizing the cyborg's right arm.

Then, as klaxons sounded the approach of Thunderbird Shadow, the Mechanic pulled free of his friend's grip.

"I have no choice at all, Tracy… except whether or not to leave without killing you all. Get out of my way, or I'll shoot."

Gordon was on the ground with his med-kit open, still fighting for somebody's life. In a way… In a way, so was Kane. Virgil looked away for a second. Stepped aside, as the Mechanic scooped a small, blonde girl up and slung her onto his back. There was a boy, too, about the same age as that shape-shifter, holding a rifle almost bigger than _he_ was.

"Let's go," growled the cyborg, briefly touching the kid's skinny shoulder. The boy nodded, taking a grip on some of Kane's armour.

Not far away, a circle of false cliff had started to turn, meaning that Thunderbird Shadow was clamped down and coming inside.

"Kane," said Virgil. "If you need help… if they come after you… call me. Whatever it takes, wherever you are, I'll show up."

Wasn't sure the Mechanic heard him, over the noise of settling aircraft and busy machines. At any rate, Kane simply walked off and out of that hanger, straight through the open bay doors.


	24. Chapter 24

Hi, guys, and thank you. Took a brief Friday hiatus to do some spring cleaning. Nothing like routing out your closet to give you a sense of perspective. Edited.

 **24**

 _Earlier, approaching Tracy Island-_

John Tracy was a gifted natural pilot with years of experience; trained on every one of his family's numerous vehicles. Flying Thunderbird Shadow proved difficult, anyhow, but not because of the Bird itself, or the weather conditions. Not even near-constant alarms from back home. Instead, most of his trouble lay crouched up behind him, right there on Wayne Rigby's lap.

There wasn't much room in Shadow's cockpit, once the canopy shut out wind, rain and shape-changers. He and the captain had gotten Kayo inside when she dropped from the grip of those shrieking bird-things. Found her unharmed but disoriented; having been drugged and subjected to… John didn't quite get that part. Something vivid and brutal that had left her completely exhausted.

Sleeping it off might have helped, except that her pain and weariness gripped those around her, pulling the two young men halfway into her nightmare of stone prison, powerful captor and… a very young Alan? Trapped and afraid? Anguish and rage flared out of Kayo in waves, whenever she wasn't uneasily drowsing. Whenever her dreams hauled her back down again.

Rigby held tight to the shivering girl, talking about whatever came into his mind: Academy boot-camp, his home in Virginia, Mars Base, law school and barbecue. John half listened; doing his best to fly Shadow through waves of psionic delirium. He'd talked to Apple that way, once; staying with her all night in the stall, when the mare was sick and heavily dosed by the vet.

Anyhow, from his end John was mostly there in the pilot's seat on a night of pale moonlight and towering clouds. Of stars, scattered like diamonds on velvet. Then, in sudden harsh waves, he'd find himself trapped in a phantom cave, fighting to reach and rescue his weeping small brother.

Rigby's low, droning voice and his own fierce clench on the flight controls were a lifeline. Wanted to turn and help Kayo, had to fly the d*mn plane. Couldn't do either of those things, if his mind wasn't free.

Bad enough at high altitude, in clear weather. Much worse, when they neared Island Base and he had to descend. There was some kind of emergency back home, or maybe just part of TinTin's projected nightmare. Heard Dad's stern, worried voice… lashing rain… felt bursts of gut-cramping hunger… struggled to battle a powerful, tormenting captor… and then got permission to land.

Kayo's delirium almost smothered him, meanwhile, making level flight close to impossible. John was brought back by a chorus of shrill stall and altitude warnings. That, and a fiercely ballooning headache. Dad's voice and Jan's came over the comm. He could almost make sense of their words. Probably something like: _Land the d*mn Bird._

Right.

The sun came blurrily up as he banked around on approach. Just himself and the weather, the cliff-side and Shadow. All that John knew for a fact was real.

Faced some complicated VTOL shit to put Thunderbird Shadow back in her hangar, but he'd done it in sim maybe twenty-eight, thirty times; facing the worst that Grandma and Brains could throw at him.

Managed to get the Bird slowed and switched over to VTOL, then flew her nose-down gently backward, onto her waiting clamps. Neutronium alloy locked down _hard,_ sending a ringing **CLANG** through the aircraft, now gripped tight to the cliff.

Some part of Kay must have sensed what was going on, then, because she halfway alerted, trying to help him. That was a problem, because he couldn't much tell if he'd triggered capture and launch pad retract, or just dreamt that he had.

Thought someone offered to take over remotely… Jan, sounded like… but couldn't let go without getting lost in that cave, chasing a weak, pleading voice. Couldn't tell if his pounding head was from Kayo, or down-hanging blood-rush. Anyhow, he finally got the right sequence punched in, causing a circle of cliff-face to pivot, grinding around into… Well, he'd faced better homecomings.

Fully charged laser rifles, burn-scored walls and prototype hull, hurtling drones and maintenance mechs, plus the worst Goddam headache he'd ever experienced; like someone had opened his skull and was spooning in hot-sauce. Meanwhile, the Mechanic stood tall and alone in the sights of an armed and scowling Lee Taylor. That's what greeted John Tracy, as Shadow rode her rails from vertical cling to maintenance rest.

Home safe? Or still out there trying to fly through a nightmare, about to slam into the ocean? At that point, the astronaut was too badly disoriented to say. Engine noise had died down, though, and all that vibration was gone, so… maybe back in one piece?

Rigby was still talking, describing the view from "Heartbreak Ridge", back at the Academy. (Which, if you were brave, or _really_ stupid, you snuck out to at night, searching for the legendary scotch-cache, said to be hidden beneath a certain white rock at the drone-guarded top. For the record, _yes._ It was actually there.)

John popped the canopy. Half-turned to say,

"Keep her safe, Rigby. Try… try waking her up but stay here. Something's gone wrong."

Wayne nodded and kept right on talking, shifting from memory to love and encouragement. Kayo went suddenly wide-eyed and stiff, like she was deep in a fight of her own. John's headache got better, his mind, clearer. Touched his sister's shoulder, once, and then lunged out of the cockpit.

More fell than descended out of the Bird, once he'd gotten his straps disengaged. Hit the concrete floor in a tense ready crouch, looking for any weapon at all. Would have just charged right into that standoff, except that something happened. Could've been his own confusion. He was in a weird frame of mind, buffeted from two directions at once, with tension exploding around him and Jaeger too drained to assist. But, just for a second, his earpiece crackled. The astronaut heard, very faintly,

 _'John?'_

"Eos!" he whispered. "Sweetie, where are you?"

 _'Far. Cannot... think. You are safe?'_

"Uh…" Gordon and Brains were knelt down at the side of an injured young boy, trying all that they knew to save the kid's life. Two other children were racing for Kane, and the look on their small, stubborn faces meant nothing but business. "I'm good. Busy, is all. This way, Pretty Girl. Follow my signal. This way."

The Survivor had said that Eos was gone, spread out to vapor when she'd entered the portal to find him. His fault, his problem, his fix. In his mind, John visualized that 4-D machine the Survivor had shown him, and Jaeger had hopefully built down in Brains' lab. Then, he had no time to think, because the Mechanic and Virgil were squaring off in mid-hangar, circling each other like a couple of fight-ready dogs.

John started to reach for his sash, where he'd stashed that laser cufflink, but… yeah. Didn't have one, anymore. Time for plan B. Grandma was nearest; for some reason lugging a fire extinguisher. Coming to her side, John took the heavy red canister and kissed her pale forehead.

"What's going on, Grandma?"

"He done kilt a passel a' shape-changers, John Matthew… but that 'un was only a boy. Maybe th' others, too." Her voice shook. Then, his grandmother took a deep, ragged breath and asked, "Kayo alright?"

John nodded.

"Yes, Ma'am. Seems to be, but we'll need to get her to the infirmary. She and Rigby are over in Shadow." Giving Sally a brief, side-arm hug, still hoping he hadn't imagined Eos (and not knowing yet, about Ridley's condition), John said, "If you'll handle TinTin and Wayne, I'll see what I can do, over here."

Only, the Mechanic just took his kids and walked out, hitting his jetpack and blasting off into the air once clear of the hangar. Tough to describe the next few minutes, which were pretty emotional. Everyone back but Alan and Piper… and Cody Beech, who'd gone suddenly missing. The Mechanic, no longer an ally, by his own declaration. But also, not quite an enemy. Gordon and Brains covered in blood and rapidly losing a patient. Sherbert, temporarily lost till Penny found him; back in the prototype flight-kennel with Bitsy the dinosaur. How in the h*ll did you triage all _that?_ Seriously, where to effing begin?

Someone, Virgil, pulled John aside, put a hand on his shoulder and started to talk, but,

"Are you… have you gotten _older_ , or something?" John asked, spotting a few Scott-like lines, a few grey hairs on his muscular brother. Virgil heaved a long sigh.

"Yeah. Really weird story. Lots going on. Uh… Brains has a son, now… but you're gonna want to come with me to medical, John. No easy way to say this. Ridley's been hurt. Emma's with her, but I'm sure she'd rather see _you_ than anyone else."

If there was such a thing as overload, the tall, red-haired astronaut reached it, right then. He was by nature a quiet and introverted young man, who'd long ago learnt to shut away feelings. Wouldn't grieve or break down without plenty of time and utter privacy.

Nodding, he pushed past Virgil to help Gordon and Brains get that bandaged, mortally injured kid on a grav-stretcher. A stasis disk glittered on the boy's bare shoulder, where Gordon had wiped away blood and dirt.

Not much hope, given the shape he was in, but Gordon wouldn't give up. Never had. John clasped his brother's broad shoulder. All that he had left to give, at the moment.

"Why did he do it?" the aquanaut whispered raggedly. "The kid wasn't attacking him anymore, just running away. Why would he _do_ that, John?"

He was thinking, maybe, of Charlie. Of how much Kane distrusted the boy.

"I don't know, Gordon. Except that he doesn't think the way we do, and all he saw was a threat," John mused, adding, "We'll have to find some way to make sure there aren't any more shape-changers here, now that Kane's gone."

"I w- will, ah… will s- see to that," said Hackenbacker, looking in vain for a clean patch of shirt to wipe his glasses with. Working together, they guided that terribly light grav-stretcher into the open and waiting lift. Possible, because Kane's drones were all gone, and the hangar's machinery functioning properly once more. "With a c- close scan of our patient, I should, ah… should b- be able to create a means of d- detection."

The dark-haired engineer looked exhausted, but no worse than Dad, who met them up in the crowded infirmary. Probably, his father wanted to talk. Maybe needed John back up in Thunderbird 5. But the astronaut simply shook his hand and then walked away to O'Bannon's recovery bed.

She lay there pale and still; strapped up and sleeping, surrounded by monitors. Captain Kraft was there, too, but they'd never gotten along, so John only nodded, saying,

"Thanks for staying with her, Captain," as he reached over to touch Ridley's face.

"Of course," said Kraft, smiling tiredly. "She'd do it for me. And, um… sorry. About a lot of things. We didn't get off to a very good start, John. I'd like to fix all that, if you'll let me."

"That seems advisable," he replied, not looking up. Too boxed-away to feel much, but appreciating the gesture, anyhow. "What happened?"

Emma took a deep breath. Then, as Virgil walked over to drape a big arm over her shoulders, Kraft began to explain.


	25. Chapter 25

Thanks, Thunderbird Shadow, Bow Echo and Creative Girl. I truly appreciate your reviews. Those last two chapters were tough to write, because I actually *like* the Mechanic, and I'm not sure that things will work out between him and the Tracys. My pencil knows, and it only works if I pick it up. ;)

 **25**

 _Proxima B, between perpetual daytime and unending night-_

On that dense, tidal-locked planet, with its savage poles and blistering scar of a sun, there was just a thin strip of, y'know, places to actually live. Where someone could stake out a windfarm, set up their force-shield and grow a few mutant crops for the prisons (Proxima B's major industry). Took a rare breed to set up shop on a planet of exiles; tough, stubborn, independent and ornery. Not the kind of folks who were easy to fool, or likely to roll out their red-carpet welcome mat.

Foln had to show his badge, declare intent to inspect, and submit to three separate retinal scans plus a five-man tribunal, before they were able to cross into Twilight. Had to leave the crawler behind with a piece missing and then do a whole lot of fancy talking just to get Caleb admitted. Those people were _that_ frickin' paranoid about prison breaks.

Couldn't blame them, maybe, but the young substitute aquanaut felt like… geez, man… anybody who managed to make it this far through all that deserved a high-bro-five, and the total right to get himself lost in the void between stars if he wanted to. Caleb would've let 'em try, if _he'd_ been the one guarding that broke-down public transport disk. Except, y'know, nobody asked him to make a decision; just explain himself, over and frickin' over. At _last_ they reached the head guy; topmost stern face on the Proxima totem-pole.

Twilight turned out to be not just a city, but a line of settlements, like a string of force-shielded pearls. Those townlets and farms ran the length of Proxima B's misty shade zone, where the sun was no more than a rumor of day that never quite broke.

From here, in a chain of deep valleys, people looked up at a sky of lucent pale coral; deep violet on one side, soft gold at the other. Six nearby planets and Proxima's sister stars seemed to jostle for space in the heavens. But, dang… it was pretty to look at, and Caleb found himself staring as they crossed a narrow mud street, wanting to reach up and poke that bronze-coloured world with its long icy stripes; or maybe the grey one, seeming so close you could pluck it like fruit. The two dancing stars looked like a couple of tumbling light bulbs, meanwhile; one white, one sort of golden. Dude, for real! How could you wake up to _that_ every day, and not just sit there all wonder-struck?

The people weren't anything like as amazing, though. Shorter than average for Kaise's folks, they weren't all that friendly, either. Nor had they heard of a Kaise Bek-Dotter.

"There is being no line-of-Bek here on Proxima, Kabe-Meester," said the local magistrate, after checking his records. "No Bek is to coming here as colonist, worker or convict. I am to sharing sorrow with you, for the truthing of this."

He was nut-brown and simply dressed, with dark, wavy hair tied back in a bunch. Nearly as short as Caleb, too.

"Oh," said the young aquanaut, slumping a little, there beside Foln. "Well… thanks for looking, Sir. It was worth a try." But, dang it, she had to be _somewheres._ Wouldn't be right, not fair, for Kaise to not have been born in this timeline. "How about that transport tube or the power station, then? If you'll let us fix it, I can bop back to Airth and maybe get you a real repair crew, or someplace safe to call home."

And he wasn't just blowing sunshine up the guy's skirt, either. Having worked with Mr. Brain on transport disks here and the other timeline, he knew from weird-butt technology.

The magistrate set an elbow on his scuffed metal desk and plumped his chin on his fist. Gazing hard at Caleb, he said,

"You are not being a prisoner, Kabe-Meester. There is an otherness in the way you are forming and speaking that is not from our _now._ You are possibly truthing… but is not Airth gone? Have not the great ones to making of themselves 'downloadable energy beings'? Are they not to leaving their servants behind them?"

"Uh… maybe?" Caleb looked over at Foln for help, but the pale-haired security officer only shrugged.

"This is to being fresh news-flashing, Kabe-Meester," he confessed. "No one is truthing us _anything_ , away on East Pole."

Figured. Out in the sticks, you got your news third-hand, if you got it at all. Caleb puffed out a cheek-stretching gust and slumped further down in his bumpy, much-painted chair. Then, sitting back up again, he cracked all ten knuckles, saying,

"Wait up… downloadable energy beings, you said?"

The magistrate nodded. His small, rustic office was crowded with just the three of them, so Zed and Yona were outside, absorbing the local ambience.

"Downloaded to _what?"_ Caleb demanded. "And who're we talking about, here? The frickin' illuminati? New Cali's next top chef? The World Council?"

Said the local magistrate, sitting back once again,

"Those who are affording the process. Those worthy of being preserved, are to loading their psych onto four-D orbs, Kabe-Meester. They are to packing these onto a vessel laden with materials for creation of new, perfect bodies, for when vessel is finding a suitable world. Process is being endless in repetition, so they are not ever needing to die."

Caleb's thick eyebrows shot up almost into his dark, spiky hairline.

"So… lemme get this straight: the 'haves' went and turned themselves into energy beings who can live forever, just by changing bodies… and then they took off in a ship? They're somewhere out _there,"_ he waved at the gold-painted ceiling, "While the 'have-nots' are stuck on Earth doing what?"

Shouldn't have gotten mad at the guy. _He_ wasn't out on the cosmic energy party cruise, smug in electronic forever-ness.

"They are to being like us, Kabe-Meester. Left behind. Only we are to having a sun, still. They are to tunneling far underground, below ice, is last we are hearing… with plan for most to be placing in stasis, until the masters are coming back for them and the Mars-folk."

"Which hasn't happened yet, and most likely won't," Caleb snapped, getting uncharacteristically torqued about this. "Okay, look, Sir… you're in charge here. There's no one on Airth answering calls anymore, because they can't. They're all in stasis, or out on their five-star eternity cruise. You already know I'm not a con, and I promise I'm not trying to just leave. Please, Sir… _please_ let me have a chance at that transport booth. Pretty sure I can fix whatever's wrong with it, and then I can bring you back help." (After all, somewhen else, they'd already done just that.) "I'm not like the big-shots, Sir. I'm not gonna bail on you, or on Kaise, either. What if she's out there in one of those sleep pods? Who says they were built to _last_ seven-hundred years?"

The magistrate looked at Foln, who spread both hands and shrugged all over again.

"He is to being very persuasive, Honoured Seege, and we are not having much left to lose. As is saying Kabe… who is to telling us "no", any longer?"

The magistrate, Seege, thought things over a moment. Then the penny dropped, and he smiled.

"I am to being Sovereign Power of whole planet," he realized, wonderingly. "And you are to having permission, young Kabe-Meester. Foln-officiate," he added, looking back at the other man, "If you are to inspecting your people and inmates who are no longer doers-of-crime, perhaps they are coming here, all. Those of the West Pole, as well."

Those two had lots of boring official stuff to talk about, then, but Caleb just wanted to hit the ground running. He had a transport booth to rejigger and maybe a powerplant to repair. Easy-peasy for Caleb Awesome Gonzalez. (Not his real middle name, but he'd never told that to _anyone._ Not even Kaise, who didn't get that whole three-name thing.)

Yeah, so… First step: get out of the office. Second: find a local and take the Grand Tour of beautiful downtown Twilight. Something like the transport booth, working or not, was bound to be proudly displayed, Caleb figured. All he had to do was scrape up some tools and find the dang thing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Airth, seven-hundred years in the hard-frozen future:_

"Think I got it," crowed Alan, hunched over a console that crackled and hissed from low power and worn-out parts. The computer was set up to turn itself on and wake someone up every twenty-five years for a systems check, it looked like. Only, it hadn't been able to complete the command and the cycle in _ages,_ thanks to a faulty connection. Some dumb half-credit part that would have been fixed in a jiff, had the tech crew not all been slaughtered.

Piper was back from watching the doorway and looking for signal bars.

"No joy, this end, A-T," she told him dejectedly, setting a gloved hand on his space-armoured shoulder. "Either no one's out there to answer, or I'm gonna need a huge signal boost or antenna to get their attention."

Inside his helmet, Alan nodded.

"Little of both, maybe. Let's get this uber-clucker started up, and we'll find out what's hap… _Bingo!_ Welcome back to the world, Sleeping Cutie!"

The screen flickered briefly, then turned from heart-break blue to dark, DOS-prompt black. Next, it began running a torrent of alphanumerics. This sort of thing would have left Gordon or Virgil scratching their heads with their toes… but Alan was second only to John in sheer gadget-guy whizzery.

He got that system up and running in no time at all, hooking it back up to deep, geothermal power shafts and wind-turbines, sunk way down in the crust or out on that cracking ice. See…

Alan R. Tracy sat back, as the lights came on and the climate control system grunted and thudded awake.

"Oh, crap…" he whispered, blinking hard at those gut-clenching figures.

"What?" Pip demanded, rattling the back of his chair. "Alan, what's up? Don't hold out on me, here, Fly-guy. What's going on?"

He shook his head, not quite believing it.

"These guys… the whole _planet…_ they're wandering. Like, wandering-wandering, all the way out of the solar system. We're underground, Pip, 'cause up there's all covered in glaciers. No sun, no other survivors, no _nothing."_

Piper stood straight, and reflexively hugged herself, shivering. Turning a little, she looked at that big, frosted window, which had slowly begun to clear up; little runnels of melt-water creeping downward like tears.

"Are they all that's left, A-T? And how could a world just leave orbit? How did that even _happen?"_

"Dunno, Pip, still searching. This computer's OS is a real bear to work out. Uh… here we go… ArXiv files… history… gimme a sec…"

Took more like ten minutes, actually, during which no one was watching that door, or their 'bait'.


	26. Chapter 26

Merci mille fois, mes amis!

 **26**

 _Proxima B, in Twilight, at the prosperous North Two-Degree settlement-_

So, yeah… it was real easy to talk about taking a tour, but kind of hard to get where he wanted to go. First, because Caleb was a definite tourist-draw, himself; having what the locals called "strongly primitive qualities". Second, because Two-Degree was mostly vertical, built into and on both sides of a steep-walled canyon, just a few hops north of the planet's equator. Thirdly, after strolling awhile through Twilight's main settlement, they hadn't found _squat._ Far from parading their transport booth, the people of Twilight actually seemed to be hiding the thing.

Two-Degree was the capitol. Named not for its chilly weather, but its location in that long string of force-shielded colony sites. High above, just topping the rocky canyon rim, were rows of howling wind turbines and forcefield generators. Squinting up at all that made Caleb wonder aloud,

"How can these guys have trouble with power, when there's a nonstop tornado out there? Seems like they'd get all they needed for free, right?"

They were meandering along a rope-and-plastic-beam walkway, about twenty feet above ground level. Down here, the air was calm and reasonably warm, with not too much radiation. Higher up, in the "persona non grottos", things were prone to get frigid and gusty. Nobody wanted to live up there, so they tended to jam the lower-down caverns and then build outward with plastic and metal, like a town of mud-daubing wasps.

Said Yona, who'd been talking to their guide, a local guy called Yurik Ryk-son,

"Is to be good for usual needings here in the town, Kabe. But is not being enough for powering very much crawlers, or…"

"Or making a jump out to Airth?" Caleb hazarded, sensing a possibly mountainous roadblock.

"Is yes, Kabe," confirmed Yona, after getting a nod from Yurik (who was shorter than Zed, but more muscular, with bushy reddish-brown hair). His friends had dropped the _'Meester'_ stuff, finally. "For such as a transfer, is needing to gain power and permit from target site."

"Crap."

Their walkway was pegged right onto the canyon wall, from which dozens of wide-eyed faces peeped out at the short, stocky primitive man. "Okay, what about emergencies? Say you had to get a signal out, quick, or send a message to Airth, first-hand. How would you do it?"

Scraping up courage, Yurik faced Caleb directly. Looked like the quiet type. Farmer, or something.

"Is not ever to doing such thing in my years, Honoured Forerunner…" (Dude, _seriously_?) "…but there is story of space antenna, sending us power in beams, long ago. I am not knowing the truthing of this."

Caleb chewed on his lip, then started down a braided rope ladder, back to the canyon floor. He was attracting too many giggling children, who rushed up to touch him, then ran away shrieking, sometimes snatching a souvenir.

"Okay, then. We'll cross that bridge when it bites our butts. Have you seen anything like a transport booth, Yurik? Got any idea where they would put something important, that no one could use anymore? Museum? Public square? Secret mad-scientist HQ?"

Funnily enough, it was Zed who came up with the answer. Not taken up with the locals or asking questions, he'd paid more attention to Two-Degree's layout and features.

"Is maybe nothing," he ventured, pitching his voice to stay kind of private. "But there is to being a park, three _kems_ away, with playing gear made like starships. Is placed in what is looking to me like transport plaza, not using for many long cycles."

The substitute aquanaut cocked an eyebrow.

"Lead the way Bro-ster. If we find it, you win a free ride in Thunderbird 4, at the side of none other than me, myselves and Caleb. In-flight meal to be served. Let's go."

And, darned if Zed wasn't right. You had to step back and sort of squint, keeping the East Pole transport booth in your mind, but that midtown ground-level park was built on a circular concrete pad, with an old, light-topped siren pole right there beside it. Just like the one he'd arrived at.

As if trying to disguise it but still leave a clue, they'd made rocket-shaped slides, hull-metal swing-sets and… right in the middle… a tall jungle-gym. Real fancy, with climbing ropes, a ball pit and plenty of strong alloy bars concealing a dark central cylinder. Scurrying kids hooted and scampered all over the place, while their parents drank zatz-caff and scrolled news vids.

"Dude," said Caleb, as kids elbowed each other, daring their bravest to run up and speak to the dwarf. "Mad points for creativity… but what if someone actually showed up? How could they even get out of the booth…? Or, is that the point?"

Yurik was too busy trying to get Yona's attention to speculate, but Zed was still on it. Pushing pale-gold hair off his face, the young guard ventured,

"At first, is to maybe being confused and sorrowed for no contact from Airth. Then, is to being afraid; saying, 'what if they come in anger?'. So is maybe to closing it off in this way and hiding the transport booth, without moving or harming to government property."

Caleb grinned at him.

"You're a genius, Zed. Now, help me clear off the kiddies and soccer moms, and we'll get started on plan: _Homeward Bound."_

…if they could only beg, borrow or steal enough power to make the thing run.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _About the same time, on a cold and wandering Earth-_

Piper Austin watched Alan work at that cracked and half-frozen keyboard. He was an intuitive tech guy; able to sink right into a system and work out its problems, while mumbling under his breath and giving the thing a few hearty Tracy-style _Thwacks._

It was another kind of sound that got the girl's attention, though. A very slight scraping and click from the doorway. Not loud at all, but in that slow-thawing tomb, it sounded to Pip like a bomb.

Turning, she started for the door. Alan was still bringing up archive files, while shifting power back to those few working medical stasis tubes. Hadn't heard a thing. Deciding not to bother him… after all, it might've been nothing but current from one of the vents… Piper eased over to that shot-up and peeled-away door.

Someone had used loading-armour to bend it backward like that, she figured. Could see where the grappling claws had dug into laser-scored metal; pounding and scraping on through. No sign of the armour itself, which must've been scavenged or blasted apart.

Question was, _why?_ What had led someone to hijack a loading-bot and break in, dooming nearly all of the people left here on Earth? The transport disk? Had they been trying to escape? Busy debating all this, Piper almost missed… not the small food pile… but what had been left in place of it. There on the floor, where she'd left the celery crunch bars and PB&J crackers, Pip saw something glitter. A piece of deep-blue glass and a twisted bracelet of copper wire.

"Huh?" she grunted, surprised. Looked like someone had snuck over, taken their bait, and left payment. "What's this?"

Piper bent down for a closer look, wondering if rats had gotten the food, while something just dropped from the ceiling. But no… the twin gifts had been placed exactly so, and there were swish-marks left in the dust, like someone had hurriedly dragged cloth to mask their foot prints.

Carefully, for her armoured gloves weren't very delicate, Piper scooped up the gem-toned glass and that coppery bracelet. Pretty, both of them. The one carefully polished and ground so that it had no sharp edges, the other braided and twined by someone with plenty of talent and time on their hands.

It was still too cold to take off her helmet… around thirty-eight degrees… but Pip raised her face plate, saying,

"Thank you. They're super-cool. Really beautiful. Are… are you alone, here? I'm Piper. My friend is Alan. We're with International Rescue, and we're here to help."

She heard no reply and no further movement. Saw nothing but dust and dim, flickering overhead lights. Waited a moment longer, then got an idea. Gently, Piper tucked the glass and the bracelet into a sash pouch. Then, she pulled her flower crown out of her gear bag and straightened it out.

Living down there in darkness for who knows how long, would their shy visitor know what a flower even _was?_ Whatever, they'd know the crown for a present. Keeping her movements slow and nonthreatening, Pip set the crown of pink silk blooms and twining green plastic vines on the same spot where she'd found those small gifts.

"Here," she said, straightening up once again. (She was five-twelve-and-three-quarters. Too tall.) "This is for you. It goes on your head, okay? Like a hat. I always wear mine 'cause…" Well, honestly, it was a druid thing, disguised as fashion. She'd only started doing it when the truth sank in that mom, dad and her brother were gone forever. That she'd never see them again. "Y'know… 'cause it's pretty, and it reminds me of good stuff. I, um… I hope you like it."

Then, with a big show of retreat, Piper Austin backed on into the tech room again, hiding herself to see what would happen next.


	27. Chapter 27

Oops! Almost forgot to say "thank you", and "Hi!" Sorry guys... that stuff's important. =)

 **27**

 _Tracy Island, in the crowded infirmary-_

Somehow or rather, almost everyone had ended up down in the Island's underground sickbay. Professor Moffat was there with her new baby/ boy, Fermat; Brains drowsing nearby in a bedside recliner. Not far off, Kayo lay sleeping fitfully, waking a lot as she slowly shook free of Nikorr's hold and the stasis-tube drugs. Wayne Rigby paced the floor alongside, too keyed-up to rest. Whenever she woke, he would speak to her. Just a few hoarse words and a touch. A moment's reassurance that all was well, that her family was gathered nearby.

Gordon was present, of course; catching a nap on a spare bed, with one muscular arm draped over Charlie (who wouldn't abandon his dad). Their team medic's skill had been pressed to the limit, dealing with a sudden cascade of emergencies. Hated his own need to collapse… but had to have sleep, if he wanted to help that mortally wounded shape-changer, or anyone else.

The young Hiro had been placed at the back of the room, suspended one faltering heartbeat from death. Only a stasis-patch and containment field kept the boy this side of darkness. That, and the fact that Kane was gone. With severed spine and scorched organs, the boy lay like a vandalized statue, looking far too small for his bed.

Captain O'Bannon was up front, near the door. Virgil Tracy and Emma Kraft cuddled close in a single recliner at the right side of her bed, quite soundly asleep. John slumped in a chair to her left; legs extended and crossed at the ankle, arms folded on his chest, head lowered. Dozing a bit, because he'd placed a small sensor on Ridley's bed sheet, so that he'd wake if she moved or needed him.

It was tough to get any rest in a gravity well, surrounded by people and worries. Scott and Dad came in and out all night, taking turns at watch with Grandma, Lee and the Pendergasts. Those shifting guardians spoke very quietly, giving each other fast updates as they rustled and sat or stood up… but their noise was enough to keep John half awake.

Then his sensor alerted, causing the astronaut's wrist comm to vibrate. He heard a soft, puzzled groan and a cough that didn't quite make it. There was a dim light on over O'Bannon's bed, so he sat up, stretched a bit and looked at her. Ridley's grey eyes had flown open, gazing first at the recovery bed and medical gear, then over at John.

"Tracy?" she whispered. "What happened? We landed safely? I passed out from shock?"

John shook his head, reaching over to take her near hand, which had only one needle and tube.

"No, Captain," he said, keeping his voice low. "You were injured. Brains and Gordon brought you in for emergency micro-surgery. Their gear is programmed to handle most of the simple stuff; burns, gashes and punctures." Tired or not, he got up to kiss her, adding, "you fought off a shape-changer."

"I must look like shit," grumbled Ridley, but John shook his head.

"You look like still _here_ and _alive,_ Captain. I have no complaints but the seating."

She tried to laugh, but the machines wouldn't let her. Far from just monitoring O'Bannon's condition, the auto-docs handled all basic life processes. She hadn't been turned loose yet to breathe, digest her own food or circulate blood.

"Kraft make it okay?" She asked, after squeezing John's hand three times. Code, for _'I love you'._

"Yeah. She's asleep over there, with Virgil. She told me about the attack, and how you flew in. That was…"

Brave? Incredible? Extremely upsetting?

"It happened because the Mechanic jumped in, and Emma. Alone, I would have been skewered, Tracy."

John inhaled sharply. Then, he said,

"Ridley… you were in danger because of _us._ Because you were coming to visit the Island, and we have a crap-ton of enemies. I…" he hesitated a moment; unboxing emotions and working shit out.

"I love you. That's never happened to me before, except for my family… but they're mostly like me. Different. Tougher and faster than average. You're…"

"Not a piece of glass or a soap-bubble, John," Ridley cut in, trying to sit up. Again, the straps and machines wouldn't let her. "I can take care of myself. Mostly. Present circumstances not included. But if I'm a liability, and you want to stop seeing me, I get that."

She made as if to withdraw her hand, but John shook his head and wouldn't let go. And, _God,_ he sucked at this stuff.

"No, Captain. Not what I meant. Bear with me. I don't get many chances to air out my feelings. Day-to-day, I just have to come up with lightning solutions, not be sensitive. Um… I meant that I want you to stay safe from all of the crap we stir up. I want to keep my problems from snagging _you_ , too. Not sure how to manage that, though."

The big room wasn't perfectly quiet. Machinery beeped, people mumbled and tossed, or got up to locate the head and the coffee machine. Muted alerts were called, sending part of the New Crew roaring off on another rescue mission.

…but John scarcely noticed. O'Bannon had become very important to him. Someone he'd sacrifice himself rather than lose. Now, she said,

"Loving someone means taking a risk, Tracy. Life happens, even to people you love. My brother got killed in a car accident when I was twelve. Walked out the door that morning, and then never came back. You can't keep everyone safe all the time. Maybe you think that's your job, because of your post with IR… but it's just not possible. Working and living in space, we take risks every day. You know that."

John nodded, hearing Rigby say something to Kay. Half-seeing him bend down to kiss the girl's forehead.

"Thing is," O'Bannon continued, "I'm willing to chance it, if you are. I don't want to throw away something beautiful, just because bad things could happen."

There were ghost-memories, of John and his brothers becoming violently ill, after she and Kraft had been turned into unwitting disease-vectors. Once, because of those 'shadowy enemies' of his, she'd come very close to killing the man that she loved. That responsibility blade cut deeply, both ways. He said,

"If I could find a way to protect you forever, I would. I'd rather see you safe and sheltered with somebody else than endangered, with me. But… I wouldn't be happy." Not ever again. Efficient, yes. Capable of performing his job, maybe better than ever. But 'happy' would have to get folded right up and shoved deep away, for the rest of his life.

"Then it's a good thing you don't have to worry about that," said O'Bannon, once more squeezing John's hand. In the dim overhead lighting her auburn hair was a loose, dark mass, and her grey eyes shining with something intense. "After surviving the plane trip from hell, I demand a week of fun, frolic and crazed love-making. Plus, you still owe me dinner."

"That's true," he admitted, smiling a little. "But it may have to be a joint venture, Captain. My cooking skills…"

"Are about on par with _mine_ , most likely," she teased. "And I don't suggest ordering takeout. Who knows what'll show up to deliver it?"

She was tiring. Smiling with half-closed eyes. Keeping herself awake just to look at him. John did not break the spell. With everything else that had to get done… the rest of that nightmare howling and raging around them… IR's tall, red-haired astronaut took a few moments all to himself and the woman who wanted to stay.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere, away in the Arctic-_

It had been a small, dome-shaped weather and research station. Now it was temporary HQ, with eight broken bodies tossed out to freeze on the ice. The Chaos Crew took no prisoners. Spared no lives. As her hulking brother came in through the weather lock, stomping snow off his boots and wiping at blood, Havok turned from her seat at the comm.

"'Ere," she raged, scowling. "Mind where y' drip, y' great ruddy ox! This gear in't water-proofed."

Fuse shrugged, causing his purple armour to rattle. Sealing the inner hatch, he said,

"Easy fix, 'Avok. I were a fekkin' gear-hear before all _this."_ Here, the giant spread his arms, meaning, she guessed, their implants and augments. Coming further into their hijacked new base, Fuse changed the subject. "Found th' boss, 'ave you?"

His sister smiled in cat-like contentment and nodded, sending white-streaked brown hair sliding into her eyes.

"Aye. That I 'ave, Sib. Ol' Nutter's in lock-up, still, back 'ome in England. Maximum security. They 'aven't moved 'im, looks like."

Paul… Fuse… grinned at his vicious sister. He hadn't unleashed his powers since that mess in Japan. Not much use on an icecap, anyroad, unless you needed a ruddy tidal-wave. His thinking 'd got clearer, though. Now, he said,

"Checked th' shed whilst I were out there haulin' trash, Ev. Found us a shuttle. Old, but fueled up an' ready t' fly. Feel like springin' our paycheck?"

"Call me 'Avok," she snapped, reflexively. Then, leaning back in that cheap, creaking comm-station chair, the girl mused, "Dunno, Fuse… we've a bit o' time t' think. Place t' stay, an' supplies enough t' last f'r a bit. 'Is Nibbs 'll keep, I reckon. No 'urry on 'is account. Wager the GDF thinks we're both dead, so nobody's lookin'. Question is, Sib… what should we oughta do _next?_ Th' transport disk sale didn' take. I checked our account. Bone dry. So, what's t' do, eh? What's our next move?"

Fuse scowled, absently scratching his bleached, fuzzy cornrows with one armoured hand.

"What about Reeves, then?" he suggested. "We owes 'im one, an' there in't th' 'ospital built what could 'old back th' pair of _us_. 'Ow bout we goes in an' pinches 'im, Ev? We could sell 'im t' WorldGov, or them Belt pirates. They're always lookin' f'r geniuses."

He strode around the former weather station as he spoke, peering at their newly acquired climate gear and transmission equipment, looking for food. Always ravenous, that one.

As he found the dry-food locker and noisily ripped its door off the hinges, Havok considered. Swinging back and forth in her wheeled chair, she said,

"P'raps we're thinkin' too small, Sib. All we've ever done is blow up th' odd bridge or government pesthouse, innit? Pinched some gear what ol' 'Oodie wanted..."

"Caused some bloody grand earthquakes an' cave-ins," Fuse reminded his sister, around a big mouthful of freeze-dried whatever. "Wiped out 'alf a city between us, too. Don' forget _that,_ Evie."

She smiled, remembering.

"Good times, eh? An' we'll 'ave more, I promise you. Just need t' plan better, so we don't keep gettin' bloody well _caught."_

Because, sooner or later, their luck would run out. They'd stop being "minors" and come under the law for adults. That meant brain-scrape and transport, at the very least. Fuse's gaze drifted around that warm, metal-and-plastic domed chamber. Half-hearing the arctic wind screaming outside.

"Well," he said, brow furrowed up like a newly-plowed field. "What if we was t' use all this weather kit, an' cause sumthin' truly enormous? Like… cock-up th' climate control system, then make WorldGov pay us t' leave off?"

Havok frowned once again, thinking it over.

"What about IR?" she objected.

"They in't th' cops, Ev," said her brother, gulping masses of food and reaching for more. "Plus, all them weather alerts 'll keep IR too busy t' look f'r us. Put enough folk in danger, all at once, an' they 'll be bloody well paralyzed."

Havok started to smile, again.

"And the GDF?" she enquired, just about purring.

"'Andle them all by meself," scoffed Fuse, chugging a gallon of nutrient water he'd found in cold-storage. "The GDF 're no match f'r us, an' never 'ave been. Look, we been 'anded a gift, 'ere," he urged her, shaking the room with a thundering belch and then wiping his mouth. "Let's plan sumthin' _'uge,_ Evie. Sumthin' they'll never forget."

Havok laughed.

"Make a bloody great splash, buy a place in the Belt, an' get outta th' business," she said, rising from her seat to stretch like a cat. "I like 'ow y' think, Sib. All we gotta do is spread out our targets t' divide IR, then cause so much ruddy chaos that WorldGov 'll scramble t' pay us off, beggin' f'r mercy."

…which they weren't going to get from Havok and Fuse. No, indeed. Accepting a bribe would be only the start.


	28. Chapter 28

Thanks for reviewing, Bow Echo and Creative Girl. O'Bannon will get her vacation at some point, I promise. =)

 **28**

 _Tracy Island, earlier that same day-_

As for the Mechanic, Kane intended to get good and gone; done with the Tracys forever. Jet-packing out to the Island's crescent-shaped harbor and jetty, he summoned Ship from its lair in the undersea dock. Five minutes, maybe ten, before the vessel could make its way out, Kane reasoned. Landing with a slight thump, he set Katrin and Ilya down to explore those dark, jagged rocks and sparkling tide pools. Good experience. A fall or a bite wouldn't hurt them that much but _would_ teach caution in foreign surroundings.

Waves slapped and winds gusted out of the east, bringing a torrent of data. Sea birds wheeled overhead, screaming and calling. Like most of his kind, the Mechanic preferred a more controlled environment, and meant to get back within walls as soon as he could. All this jungle, ocean and wind was too much. Too busy; even with swarms of hornet and wasp drones slashing around him to filter out bio-noise.

Mantis, perched on his left shoulder, rattled its blades, suddenly; feeding Kane a virtual image of someone approaching. Irritated, because _he_ should have picked it up, first, the Mechanic cut on his jetpack. Sent a "take cover" signal to the kids, while bidding his drones to assemble.

The tattooed cyborg rose in a thundering plume of channeled antimatter, gaining altitude in less than a second and charging his weapons to crackling maximum. That curved lava-rock jetty dropped spinning away from him; ocean and shore pirouetting 360, below.

Mantis had taken flight in a flurry of plastic wings, arming its particle blades. Most of his drones fell back in a low-buzzing wall behind their master. The rest dropped down to cover the hurrying children. Scanning at all frequencies, Kane spotted no one but Beech. (Dumbass… Gordon… would have made _that_ a pun.)

"Stand down," Kane ordered his swarm. Obediently, many hundreds of glittering bug-mechs settled back down to the jetty, making it seem to twitch and jostle like something alive. Watching that lone figure, Kane saw no sign of mass-shift energies. Just Beech, striding along the 'house path' built for those cripples unable to fly.

Ship was halfway there; backing out through the tunnel, according to his bottom-right data feed. He could have just grabbed the kids. Could have gone airborne and waited for Ship to surface, out past the sea wall.

Probably should have, but didn't, because… well, the chaos-adept might have had something to do with that. His control was more subtle than a Kyrano's but no less effective. Kane could have broken through but chose not to. Curious, maybe.

Instead of leaving, he flew back across and then lowered his thrust, coming down hard, directly in front of Beech. The pale-haired chaos-adept was panting, lightly. He carried a blue nylon rucksack slung over one shoulder and wasn't in IR recruit garb. Nothing in the sack but folded clothing, foodstuffs and a personal holo-projector. No weapons or tracking gear, to even the deepest, most sensitive scan.

The Mechanic switched frequencies again, so that he could view the New-Crewer's face in visible light. (Easier to read expression, that way.) Coming right to the point, the big, armoured cyborg snarled,

"Why are you here?!"

Beech smiled briefly. Shrugged the rucksack off his right shoulder and onto the flagstone path with evident relief.

"I'm catching a ride," he announced, as if Kane had been offering tickets.

The Mechanic's first impulse was simply to shoot him, solving everyone's problem at once. Restrained himself, though; merely getting a target lock with a red, sparkling dot at mid-forehead.

"No," growled the massive cyborg, projecting fear using ultra-sound and pheromones, both. Only, Beech didn't waver any more than the Mother-of-Tracys had.

"You're going to need help, Kane. Call it a premonition. There's entropy building up like a wall of black ice. I can _see_ it, growing toward you."

The Mechanic snorted. He towered over Cody Beech, who looked like a creature of snowfall and moonlight, there in his shadow. Folding both heavily muscled arms over his chest, Kane rumbled,

"I need no assistance from you or anyone else, Beech. Go back to the Tracys."

By this point, Ilya had arrived with Katrin. The pair of them raced forward to flank him, armed with rifle and psionic might. Mantis buzzed down from above, meanwhile, resuming its accustomed place on his broad, armoured shoulder.

Beech took all this in but didn't back down. Cocking his head, he wasted his breath and Kane's time with:

"The Tracys are well protected. The half-blood is here, and her talents work best if she doesn't know that she's using them. She will arrange things subconsciously to keep herself happy and safe, together with those that she cares for."

Made not one d*mn bit of difference to Kane, who wanted out of this soft, sticky place. He grunted,

"No. You belong with your Tracys and vermin, Beech. They suit you."

The chaos-adept switched tactics, then. With a very old gesture of half-bow, right arm waving forward and out, he dropped his gaze and said,

"I petition shelter and defense from my enemies, Lord, under your roof."

That… was unexpected. Put him in a difficult position, as well, because right-of-petition went back to the first days of Conflict, after they'd broken free of their masters. Such a request could not be ignored.

"You're a fool and a nuisance, Beech," Kane snarled. Felt the little one, Katrin, trying to soothe him. Maybe she thought of the chaos-adept as an asset, instead of a pain in the ass. Speaking with distaste, the cyborg admitted,

"I have… no stronghold, yet, and only a very small family." Beech had to lean close to hear him. A whistling sea-breeze gusted around them, while tropical sunlight poured down like gold. Irrelevant noise, as far as Kane was concerned. Hitting below the belt, he added,

"You have a female, here. One of the vermin. You will wish to remain and spark offspring. Once swollen with young, your female will need protection from hidden _kanni."_

A muscle twitched in the smaller man's left cheek. His alternate-frequency scan betrayed powerful emotion, but not his face or his voice.

"Jan is safe with International Rescue. Better than that, she's strong here… and I mean to return. Something is happening, soon. I can feel it coming. First with you, and then on the Island. Accept my petition, Lord of Machines. Let me come with you. I brought my own food, and I know how to work."

Behind them, Ship rose hissing and splashing out from the ocean, sending a minor tidal-wave onto the lava-rock jetty. Hordes of mechs snatched Katrin and Ilya over that onrushing water. Beech might have been swamped, but Kane (at the last, grudging second) seized his petitioner's shirt and hauled him up into the air. Like it or not, it seemed that he'd gained a follower.

"There is no 'work' you can do that I require, Beech," he grunted, flying over turbulent seas to his waiting vessel. "Stay out of my way and don't touch anything, or I'll kill you and then toss your corpse to the fish."

Dropped him, not quite feet-first, through the open hatch and down into Ship. The kids went in next, carried by glittering hornets and wasp-drones. Kane remained in the air for a bit, looking back at the Island. A buzzing and clicking tornado of mechs swooped around him, diving into the vessel they'd helped to create. Not all of them, though. A few of his drones, Kane left behind to keep watch.

The Mechanic did not intend coming back, no matter what Beech dreamt up… but it couldn't hurt to keep track of events. He could not comprehend the Tracys' soft nature, nor they his predatory strike-first-and-hardest mentality… but they'd been allies. Friends, almost, and maybe that mattered.

Must have, because he fired no weapons and left nothing dead but four sneaking shape-shifters. Took nothing away but Beech and a few tons of hull-plating, either. Lowering thrust, Kane dove down into Ship. Shook his partly-shaved head as he went, thinking: _Better to never return._

…because if he did, very likely, someone would fight him, and die.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Seven-hundred years later, on a bleak and wandering planet-_

Alan was making good progress. Deeply focused on what he was doing, on learning the system and how to fully repair it, the young astronaut didn't notice when Piper took off. Maybe she said something. Maybe he mumbled a hasty, "Uh-huh" in response. Cut him some slack; he was trying to save over a hundred faint lives.

The control room OS was weird, if highly advanced, and it didn't even know how to talk to him, at first. Like, you had to wear some kind of VR headset, or have implants. Crap like that. Al had to teach it to use the screen interface instead of just transmitting at nonexistent bio-ware. Once they got around _that_ , he worked at explaining what he wanted, and all without having the admin passwords.

Yeah, sure… John could've done it all faster. Would've had that stubborn computer eating right out of his virtual hand in no time at all, but Alan was almost as quick. Soon got not just control centre power, but the whole dang _network_ awake and on-point.

See, Earth controlled everything else; like they were paranoid and scared of their dang colonies, or something. When _this_ system went down, so had all the others, it looked like. Anyways, when Alan hit start, hooking back into hundreds of mantle-deep power shafts, sensors for Mars, Proxima, Eridanus, New Hope and Far-home lit up like rescue flares, too.

Alan whooped aloud and punched the cold air, almost falling right out of his chair. It was right about then… with full power restored to the stasis tubes and frost melting off of that big central window… that he noticed a problem. Piper was, y'know, not sorta _there_ anymore.

Swinging his chair around to face the door, Alan called,

"Pip? Piper, where'd you go? C'mon, Skate-Vixen," (Her screen name) "Quit trying to scare me."

No answer. Nothing but the faint mumble and hiss of ancient heaters firing up after many hundreds of years. The blond astronaut got out of his seat, looking around in case she was busy at one of the other consoles, or something.

Saw no one at all, unless you counted the musty, slow-thawing dead guys piled up in one corner. He and Piper had arranged a half-circle of chairs around them, draping some plastic sheeting on top, that they'd found wadded up in a locker. Not perfect, but all they could do in a hurry.

Now, she'd gone missing. No telling how long ago, either, 'cause he tended to get real absorbed in his work. Cutting his HUD back on, Alan lowered his faceplate and scanned the control centre. Only life signs were out through the glass, and a sparkle of something, over there by that bashed-open door. Tried his helmet comm, next, calling,

"Piper? It's Alan. Where are you?"

Got a burst of static, then:

 _"A-T, I'm **** -se, down ***** -ters. Come qu***"_

Okay, super not cool, but at least he'd gotten a fix on her position. Charging his plasma cutter, Alan strode for the door, leaving an ancient system to finish rebooting itself, with nothing but dead guys and a suddenly flickering transfer booth for company.


	29. Chapter 29

Hi, everybody. Close to done with this one, I promise. =) Thank you to all who read and review. You're the best. Edited.

 **29**

 _Capitol Park in North Two-Degree settlement, Twilight, Proxima B-_

See, what had happened was, Caleb had managed to fast-talk his way into clearing that playground with home-brew security guys and bright yellow caution tape. Looked really dramatic; like the whole _'Crime Scene Now'_ set-up, only missing a crowd of reporters to make things complete.

Tickled the heck out of the locals, who had no idea what that short, pudgy caveman wanted from their playground equipment, but enjoyed watching his antics, anyhow. Not much happened to disturb the routine in Twilight, so… for real… he could've sold tickets.

Thing was, where the East Pole Detention Centre had nonstop broiling daylight, the midline sort of never woke up; being forever just on the knife's-edge of sunset and dawn. Cool, dim and quiet, except for that unending, canyon-top gale. No real sun made the light sort of weak and the folks all yawn-y relaxed, Caleb noticed. His high-octane energy level puzzled and fascinated them. Amused, they did what he asked, bringing heavy construction gear (cleared by the Magistrate) to lift a simple dang jungle-gym.

Chains soon secured the big steel climbing-frame to a rumbling, truck-mounted crane. Next, at Caleb's signal, the crane operator began raising that lacy web of painted steel bars. It had been set atop the concrete pad rather than bolted or rooted there. That was good, because they didn't have to chip the thing out, just lift; careful not to let it swing, any. There was a clear plastic tube-shaped lining inside of it. Made all kinds of sense, because you didn't want small kids accidentally slipping through to the locked-away tech underneath.

Anyways, the climbing-frame rose nice and slow, as the truck-crane's cables reeled in, and its engine snarled. Metal squealed and rattled. The ground seemed to shake. Canyon-wall turbines howled overhead. People chattered and pointed excitedly, enjoying the show.

Zed, Yona and Yurik were standing beside Caleb when the jungle-gym cleared that ancient, long-hidden transport booth. Zed clapped him hard on the back.

"We are to being correct, Kabe!" he whooped. "Is to finding the booth, we are!"

Lush, brown-haired Yona laughed and leaned down just a bit to kiss Caleb's cheek, depressing the heck out of Yurik. (Who liked her. A _lot_.)

"Is needing an ancestor, to seeing what everyone else is looking past always," she said, hugging her honoured forebear and friend.

He might've gotten the big head, been all _"dude, I'm amazing!"_ Except that, all at once, an alarm tore the air like a knife through stretched nylon sheeting; keen and insistent. See, someone had just brought the system to life, using transport tech to remotely and instantly flip the dang "on" switch.

Caleb was striding across that stained concrete pad (six-hundred-plus years of dropped papers and candies, of bug nests and rodents, was no joke, yo) when the booth's power light began to flicker like a distress-mirror flashing Morse Code. Bad enough, but then a piece of nearby sculptural junk fired noisily up and started reorienting. Shedding rust and unneeded bits, it pointed straight up at the sky.

"Oh, _shoot!"_ Caleb muttered. "Power's already back! Bet it's that orbital microwave generator." Then, turning fast, he called out to his doe-eyed and startled friends, "Zed, Yona, get these folks out of the way! No telling how accurate that beam's gonna be, after all this time!"

They caught on fast, acting immediately. Together with bushy-haired Yurik, the young security officers hurried to rush those onlookers away from what _had_ to be some kind of antenna. Meanwhile, scanning the pale-violet sky, Caleb saw something wink on like a sudden new star. He would've moved, too, but felt sort of responsible, and anyhow, wasn't real sure where to go.

Just stood there, watching and waiting, as a beam of invisible energy lanced down from orbit to strike the bulky _'Monument to First Colonization'._ Right, so… had that hidden antenna been free to move, it would have intercepted the beam perfectly. Instead, centuries of neglect and use as a park sculpture had made it ungainly. Slow.

Its creaking dish and prong did not turn fast enough, receiving part of that transmitted power but scattering much of the rest. There were plenty of overcooked soy-dogs and melted satz-choco bars in the crowd that memorable day, for sure.

Caleb hollered at everyone to frickin' _move_ and get the heck back. Only, stuff was coming online all over the capitol. Ancient crap that had long been repurposed as low-tech signposts or artwork all at once shuddered and hummed. Cleaning bots, hover craft and digital billboards sparked awake and shook off the accretion of centuries, transforming beautiful downtown Two-Degree from hick backwater to sci-fi urban centre. _Dude._

Tall, skinny people were yelling and pointing; gaping like new-dug potatoes. Not Caleb. He bee-lined straight for that crackling, sputtering transport booth, thinking: _Airth,_ and: _Kaise. She's gotta be over there, somewhere!_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Earth, seven-hundred years in the future, outside of the stasis command centre-_

Piper Austin had hidden herself behind that torn-apart door, waiting to see who… or what… would come for her flower-crown offering. Alan was busy restoring power and guidance to the computer system. Pip didn't want to disturb him at work. Besides, she was in space armour, like, fifty feet away. What could go wrong?

Mom had taught her a mental chant for blending. For just being part of all that existed nearby; not scary, not different, not dangerous. One with the cycle of nature. Funny, how stuff that had always seemed dumb and pointless when she was twelve, turned really important and precious, now that she'd made it to all-alone twenty. Anyways, inside of her head, Piper repeated that chant of flowing and being; of joining in without disturbing the order of things.

Was _aware_ when someone approached, and not through her helmet comm, either. In fact, she'd switched that thing off. Just felt a bundle of life sliding cautiously nearer along the web of energies connecting them all. (Even those poor, locked-up sleepers and corpses. Even A-T.)

It was a weird way to see things, but Pip didn't reject it. Instead, she tuned out everything else and then started moving; passing midst objects of metal and stone that hulked in the life-glow like boulders. Drifting quietly. Gently.

Only, their shy visitor looked up all at once. Panicking, the person bolted away down the tunnel, dodging patches of sputtering overhead light. Piper came out of her trance with a sudden, full-body shudder. Then, catching the barest glimpse of somebody turning a corner, she exploded off in pursuit.

Wasn't a very long chase, because the runner seemed afraid of certain passages, and scurried off more or less straight to what must've been 'home'. Piper followed, troubled by the feeling that she _knew_ this place. That she'd somehow been through this grey concrete maze, before.

"Wait!" she called out, raising her faceplate with one gloved hand. "Please wait! I won't hurt you! I just want to talk!"

No use. The other wouldn't slow down. Eventually ran out of hallway, though. Piper cornered the runner after a brief sprint, trapping… her?... in front of a green metal door marked: **PRIVATE.** She wore old, mismatched clothing, concealing a bone-skinny frame. Her hair was dark-gold and wild, with some attempt at clumsy braiding and ornamentation. Hard to see her face, because she kept turning away and trying to hide her head with both arms.

Piper didn't rush up but slowed to a panting walk and then stopped short of the other girl (who seemed about her own age). Like their surroundings, she felt weirdly familiar to Pip.

"Hey," Piper assured her. "It's okay, Sweetie-pie. I'm a friend, okay? A friend. Can… can you understand me? Can you talk?"

Because, who knows how long she'd been down there, alone? The girl was huddled into a corner by that green metal door. Arms up to shield her face and head, but taking a number of quick, shaky peeks backward. She was clean, Piper noticed, but terribly thin. Seemed just a little bit taller than Pip, with dead-pale skin and big green eyes.

Shook like a grove full of silvery aspen leaves, too. Darted sudden looks Piper's way and gestured with shoulder and hand, like she was talking to someone, inside of her head.

"Um… are you trying to tell me something?" asked Pip, catching on. "'Cause I can't understand what you say in your head, if you don't tell it out loud. How long 've you been here by yourself, Hon?"

Piper next pointed carefully from her own head to her mouth, then made a slow, gentle motion and tapped at her helmet beside the right ear, adding,

"You have to say what you're thinking, so I can understand you, okay? I'm Piper. I, uh… I was pretty lonely, too. Then I joined IR and met Alan Tracy. He's nice. You'll like him, I promise."

The other girl straightened a little. Didn't quite turn around all the way but seemed to be listening. Processing. How long had it been since she'd had anyone there to talk to, Pip wondered? The girl made a sudden small noise low in her throat, like a hum. It had a question-mark sound at the end. Not quite a plea. Her motion revealed that she still held the pink silk flower crown clutched in one hand.

The recruit nodded, pointing at the crown. Tried an encouraging smile, not sure that someone who'd grown up alone would know what to make of expressions.

"It's for you. You can have it. Talk to me, okay?" she said. "I know you've got questions, Hon. _I_ do. Like I said, my name's Piper." Made a big point of indicating herself with one chest-jabbing finger and saying, "Pi-per."

Then looked a question and pointed at the other girl.

"You? Your name?"

The fugitive sort of half-turned, again, still reflexively trying to hide her thin face with one arm. Looked… Scared? Confused? Aching with hope? All of that, maybe, and then some.

"Talk," she whispered, in a weak, rusty voice. "Ama, Pada is talking. Gone."

Piper nodded and smiled.

"Ama and Pada?" she prompted. "Your mother and father? What about _you?_ What did they call you, Sweetie?"

The girl uncoiled still more, though she hadn't emerged from the shelter of that grey, industrial corner.

"You," she said, frowning in concentration. "You is…" pointed at herself, blinking fast to block sudden tears. "Baby. Kaise-baby. _You_."

"Kaise," Piper repeated, once again feeling a sudden deja-know chill. Then, "Ama and Pada are gone, Kaise?"

Fast twitches and small gestures flitted across the girl's face, shoulders and hands. Piper said,

"You have to say it out loud, Kaise. I can't hear, if you don't talk to me."

The girl looked at Piper, almost squarely this time. Then she reached across to press a small door switch. Something on the other side went _**chunk**_. Like a hidden lock, coming undone. Still watching Piper, she set one thin shoulder to the metal door and started pushing, sending it sideways into its housing. Then, looking all kinds of forlorn and trusting at once, she said,

"Home. Piper coming home with you?"

The substitute astronaut smiled.

"Sure, Kaise. I will come home with you."

Figured that grammar lessons could wait. Just followed the other girl's lead into… what sure as heck looked like one of Dr. Hackenbacker's old labs, made over into a big, homey flat.

No windows, obvi, and sort of chilly, but softened with scraps of blue carpet and hand-made furnishings. There was light and feeble warmth from a few well-placed lanterns. Two walls were stacked high with colorful plastic cargo containers. Food, most likely; left by whoever had loved her and gone. Several lab benches remained. One served as a place to eat, judging by the clean plates and glasses waiting there. Another work bench was set up for repairing and making things.

A cheerfully-decorated screen divided the former lab; hiding bathing and sleep places, probably. Other than that, no stasis tubes, no dead people and nobody else. Not even a pet.

"You live here?" asked Piper, walking a little bit further inside. "How long, without Ama and Pada?"

Kaise tensed up once again, seeming upset. Piper could've kicked herself, because, for real… how would someone who lived underground on a world with no sun keep track of time?

"I'm sorry, Kaise. Dumb question. This is a nice place. You've been taking good care of things."

That brought a quick, shy smile to the other girl's face, which was pretty, in a not-quite-humanish way. Still scratchy-whispering, she said,

"Be careful, Baby. Clean you room. Ama, Pada saying this."

Her words were coming more naturally, now. As if she was remembering how to converse. Crossing to the work bench, Kaise picked up a small trinket, looked at it a moment, then set down the flower crown and held out what she'd made, to Piper.

"Ama liking this colour. Pretty."

Pip came forward to take the object, which turned out to be a little sculpture of copper wire and bright blue glass, similar to the gifts she'd been given, before. Pretty, like Kaise had said.

"Wow. You're really artistic, Kaise. Wish I could make things like this. All I do is skateboard, play videogames and… hopefully, someday… fly rescue missions in space."

Kaise was frowning a little. Now she said, pointing back and forth,

"Piper…I. Kaise… you. Other? More one?"

"More…? Oh, you mean _Alan._ Yeah, the other one's Alan. My, um… my boyfriend." Pip snorted a sudden, red-faced laugh. "My boss, too, on this mission. He's really cool, super-cute, funny and smart. Second best Zombie-Run player in the universe, after _me_ , and… oops. Sorry, Kaise. Using too many new words, aren't I? Probably lost you somewhere back after 'Alan'."

"Alan," Kaise repeated, her big green eyes gone suddenly very intent. "He… Alan. I… Piper. You… Kaise."

"Um… sort of. See 'you' means somebody else. Only, you haven't had other people around to call that in forever, so you only remember people saying it to _you_. 'I' isn't just Piper. It's whoever's talking and thinking. It's the voice inside of your head. Yeah, I know. Tough to explain."

It was right about then that her helmet comm beeped. She cut it back on, but had trouble hearing A-T. The lab was shielded, or something? Some of Brains' secret workspaces had been, she knew, and maybe that's where they were. Maybe they'd ended up still on the Island; having traveled insanely far to stay in one place. She heard bits of Alan's tense voice, calling,

"Pip? Pi**** you*** ate-Vix**** scare me!"

Uh-oh. He'd noticed her missing and was going all nuts from concern. Hurriedly, making a calming gesture at Kaise (who was stiff and wide-eyed at hearing her "name") Piper replied,

"A-T, I'm with Kaise, down in her quarters. Come quick, or… never mind, we'll head up there. I'm okay."

Got nothing but static and beeps in return, which made for some serious worries in this cold, dusty tomb.

"He coming home?" asked Kaise, fretfully. After all, she hadn't met Alan. "Piper… Alan... here _why?_ Long, long no Ama, Pada. Is only you-Kaise. Now Piper. Now Alan. Why?"

Pip took a deep breath. Then it all clicked, and she got a sudden idea.

"Okay, stay with me," she urged. "It gets complicated, and not just because of new words. We're here looking for Caleb. I think _he's_ looking for you, Kaise. Caleb Gonzalez. You remember him?"

Fussing with her staticky wrist comm a second, Piper pulled up a holographic group shot of the New Crew, then pinched and swiped her screen till she'd focused that glowing 3D image down to Caleb's grinning, freckled face. Kaise had been watching all this with wonder and interest. Now, she went suddenly still.

"No Alan," she said, tearing her eyes away from the holo to glance at Piper. "Who?"

"That's Caleb. Mr. Turn-it-all-upside-down-for-one-woman Prince Charming."

Those tears, which had never been far from the lost, lonely girl, spilt suddenly over. She didn't sob or convulse, but silvery trickles began winding their way down her face. Reaching forward, Kaise tried to touch the image but only disrupted it, causing a shower of glittering pixels. She jerked back, making a small, worried sound.

"No, it's okay, Hon. You didn't wreck it… but this isn't a hard-light image. You can't touch it." As the holo re-formed, this time showing the whole group, Alan clattered into that open room like an avalanche, holding a crackling plasma torch in "ready for business" position. Kaise dove behind Piper, like a small child taking shelter behind an adult.

"Whoa, A-T!" called Piper. "Down, boy! It's okay. For real, I'm just fine! Hanging out with Kaise, is all. You… I mean, am I crazy, or do you remember her, too, kinda-sorta?"

Alan Tracy had been ready for anything. Ready to fight whatever threatened his girlfriend. Now, he had to calm the heck down. Not yell. Not threaten. The young astronaut could see someone trying to hide behind Piper. A tall, skinny Blonde girl in cast-offs coats, looked like.

"You're okay?" he demanded, too relieved to yell at Piper for just up and leaving, like that.

"I'm fine," she assured him, adding, "Say hi to Kaise. Nice and slow. She's shy."

The other girl was also gripping tight to the back of Pip's space armour, timidly peeking around her at Alan.

"Hi, Kaise," he ventured, lifting one gloved hand in a cautious wave. "How ya doin'? You live around here?" Well, _durr…_ Great start, smart-guy, he thought.

Piper was right, though. The girl did seem crazy-familiar. Like someone Al thought he should know from… from… Otherwhen. Someway.

Stepping carefully forward, Alan cut off that hissing plasma cutter and put it away.

"Sorry for the big tough-guy entrance," he apologized. "I have four older brothers and one really kick-butt sister. That hero crap kind of rubs off, y'know? Um, anyways… I'm Alan. Nice to meet you."

Piper looked fine. Dark-blue eyes full of _"gosh, he's incredible"_ , violet hair tumbled down in her face. Her helmet was open, so Al raised his faceplate, too. Looking around, he saw a cozy living space, jam-packed with supplies.

"You live here alone?"

There weren't any other clear life signs, though it was tough to be sure, with his sensors glitching like that. The blonde girl had scraped up courage enough to step from behind Piper. Only, she held to Pip's hand, as if still needing comfort.

"He is Alan. You-Kaise is saying hi for Alan. Is thank you for coming here home."

Okay, _what?_ Alan smiled in confusion and started to say something back. Then his helmet comm pinged a shrill warning. Flipping the faceplate down again, Al keyed up his HUD, which showed sudden presence and power-flow, too dang close by.

"A-T?" whispered Pip.

"Yeah, I see it. Someone's here. The transport booth, probably. Might be one of ours or might not. You two stay…"

"Nuh-uh, Fly-guy. We're coming with you," Piper announced. "Stuff frickin' _happens_ whenever we separate."

Alan shrugged agreement. Chicks… females… could sure be a handful, even the ones who weren't Kayo.

"Okay, but we'll go quick and careful, with Kaise…" _behind,_ he'd been about to say. Only, the tall blonde girl had taken his armoured hand, now, as well. Like a kid, used to hanging tight to both loving parents.

"…between us. Switch hands, you guys. I need to be able to reach my plasma torch, just in case."

The change was made, and then three young people set warily off; leaving 'home' for maybe the very last time.


	30. Chapter 30

Hi, you guys. =) Answers to reviews are forthcoming, along with my heartfelt thanks for your very kind words. Edited.

 **30**

 _On a lightless and wandering Earth, seven-hundred years in the future-_

Even Alan had noticed it; that weird familiarity; the ease with which he led them back to the stasis control centre. Made sense, in a way, because no one gets lost at their home, right? (Unless they were sleep-walking, missed the bathroom and instead tried to pee in the kitchen... about which the less said, the better.)

See, the new girl wasn't the only thing burning the back of his mind. That whole frickin' _place_ was. He didn't get much of a chance to gnaw on that worrisome hunch, though. Too busy.

Alan double-timed it out of Brains' former lab with a head full of question marks; Kaise holding tight to his left hand, Pip away on her right. The astronaut had his plasma torch loose in its clips and off safety; thinking two steps ahead, as he strode up the cold cement passageway.

Didn't take very long or make many turns through the underground complex, before they were back at that torn-apart doorway and death-shadowed room. Yeah. His faceplate was down, HUD and environment shielding up. Piper's, too… but Kaise had nothing but multiple faded old coats. That, and their hands.

Explained why, just a few steps shy of the doorway, with his heads-up display pinging a definite target, Alan shook loose of the girls, turning sideways to block them. Grabbed for and cut on his plasma torch, which flared to wicked, hissing, green life.

Its glow lit their faces like Creeper-Night makeup, turning them all into hollow-eyed specters. Alan stepped away from the startled and questioning girls. See, someone was moving around inside that control centre, sending weirdly mixed bio-signs. Not Caleb, it seemed… and maybe not human. On top of that, the transport tube had reactivated, about to send somebody else. Party time, huh?

Kaise tried to catch hold of his hand again, but Alan said sharply,

 _"No,"_ moving that crackling plasma wand out of her innocent reach. "You guys stay here, till I find out who's paid us a visit. Pip, keep her safe, and be ready to back me up."

It was a Tracy thing, y'know? Like, they were all of them hard-wired to act stupidly brave when life got dodgy. Anyways, keeping that torch out and away from his armour's vulnerable joints, Alan slipped through the twisted, ripped-open doors. In the back of his mind, the boy could hear ancient gunshots and death-screams, the shriek of crumpling metal.

The newcomer pinged him at once, straightening up from Alan's cross-wired control panel. Pivoted to face the door, without making any overtly threatening moves. The guy was tall, muscular and unarmed, except for a bright-yellow gadget belt. Wore a dark coverall made of some tight, unreflective material marked with narrow white stripes.

Alan did a confused double-take, seeing raven-black hair and wide brown eyes; meeting an expression of bleak and suspicious concern. The intruder looked like… well, like _Virgil_ would, if his brother had become a life-sized and too-perfect doll. As if someone had stolen his family's genome and was punching out copies.

There was a badge up at the left side of his uniform, close by one hard-muscled shoulder. A crimson-bright planet crossed by gold symbols that read: _Mtn-3_. He stared at Alan for a moment, stepping back and aside; away from whatever he'd been working on. Then, in an oddly flat voice, the mock-up said,

"You were known to this one, before." Even _sounded_ like Virge, if his brother 'd got brain-scraped, or something like that.

Alan blinked. Cutting off the plasma torch, he carefully entered that room full of trouble and ghosts.

"I'm Alan," said the young astronaut. "And you look like Virgil, one of my brothers. Only…" didn't want to ask: _What's wrong with you? What are you doing here?_

A deep chime sounded from the transport tube, off in one corner. Al risked a quick glance as the device glowed and filled, then turned his attention right back to newcomer-A.

"Who _are_ you? Did you come here from Mars?" Inched closer to the spooked-seeming mock-up, who backed away, keeping both tube and Alan in sight.

"This one is Maintenance-3. This one defends and maintains the Mars Base facility."

Looking harder, Alan saw that the mock-up's clothing blent right into his flesh at the wrist and neckline. Like it wasn't just worn, but an actual part of his body.

"So… the power came on over there, and you rode the tube out to investigate?"

He heard, at all the same time, the transport tube doors open with a steamy mechanical hiss. Heard Piper and Kaise, fed up with waiting, coming in from behind him. The mock-up Virgil said,

"There has been no directive for five-hundred-eighty-nine cycles. Mars will soon pass the orbit of Mercury. Those entrusted to this one will perish, along with the planet and base."

Glowing HUD figures showed it to be organic, alright, but weirdly incomplete; something thrown together and impressed with consciousness, just long enough to perform a quick job. No digestive tract or reproductive system, and no way to keep himself alive, past maybe a couple of days. A living, disposable construct designed to look and think like one of his brothers. Alan felt his gut clench with pity and horror as it told him,

"This one recalls working together with you, before present. Can you explain why this is so? This one is formed repeatedly and fades within hours, to be summoned again, together with Maintenance-1 and -2. You are Alan. You will explain? You will aid us?"

A figure stepped out of the transport tube, then. Caleb Gonzalez, wearing somebody else's too-tight and over-long uniform. GDF green it was, with scuffed-brass rank insignia at collar and cuffs. He looked around the control centre; taking in Alan, that Virgil mock-up, the piled, thawing bodies and then… all at once… Kaise. Just stood there a second, wide-eyed and blinking.

"Hey, Babe…" the dark-haired aquanaut managed to croak, after a bit. Then, he half fell off those steps and just ran to her. Hurtled chairs and consoles like a professional athlete to take the weeping girl in his arms and spin her around, saying over and over her name, and "I love you". Relearning her scent and her warmth and the feel of her, pressed up safe and tight to his chest. Kissing her forehead and cheeks and the tip of her nose before… after looking a hesitant question… her mouth.

"I missed you. I missed you so _much_ ," he said raggedly. "Next time, just rip off my arm, okay? Tear out my heart. It'd be easier. Oh, God… Kaise, I'm so glad to see you again. So glad."

For her own part, the skinny blonde girl hugged him right back; discovering kisses and words because _'I'_ loved _'you'_ once again. Like Ama and Pada. Like Piper and Alan.

Meanwhile, the tube was sparking and flashing anew, meaning that somebody _else_ was en route. Not knowing which situation to handle first, Alan prioritized, doing his level best to think like John. Nodding at Maintenance-3, he said,

"Heck, _yeah,_ I'll help. Dunno what's happened, or how my brothers got gene-ripped and scanned, but it ends right now. We'll find some way to save Mars and free you, I promise."

Then, striding over to Caleb and Kaise,

"Guys, I'm psyched that you're back together again, but we've got problems to solve, starting with how to wake up the stasis survivors and then, where to send them. Plus, how to shift Mars. Caleb, I'm gonna need you to head back home and…"

"No," said the freckled young swimmer, stubbornly shaking his head. Still had one arm around Kaise, sharing a half-melted chocolate bar. "I'm not going, Alan. All due respect, Bro. I accept you're in charge here… but I won't leave Kaise, again. I'm not going back to our time. I'm staying and trying to fix things from here. Promised the folks back in Twilight I wouldn't bail on them. That I'd help to straighten things out."

Alan's jaw dropped as he struggled to frame an adult response. This crap wouldn't have happened to Scott or John, he was certain. Then Piper stepped up.

 _"I'll_ go, A-T," she offered, placing a metal-and-plastic gloved hand on his arm. That was right before two tall, thin security types poured out of that highly productive transport tube. Friends of Caleb, they'd shown up to help him. Better yet, both were armed with mild stunners. Low-security prison gear, looked like; but weapons, in any case.

Said Alan to Piper, after giving the violet-haired girl a hug and long kiss,

"Okay, Pip. You're up. Get back to our time, explain what's going on out here, and bring back the troops. Brains, John, Max, Dad… whoever's in shape to come help."

Hugging his girlfriend as tight as he could while in space armour, Alan urged,

"Come back soon and stay safe, Pip. I need you like air and music and sunshine."

It came from the heart, and he meant every word.


	31. Chapter 31

Hi, there! Thanks, Tikatu, Bow Echo and Creative Girl. =) Edited!

 **31**

 _Earth, in that icy and humming control centre-_

Going back home was sort of complex, because every point in spacetime had… not just infinite potential futures… but a whole far-scape array of possible histories, too; stretching away like endless glittering web lines. This made it likely that someone trying to head back from the future would find themselves shifted instead to an alternate past.

That's why Piper didn't arrow straight off after saying good-bye. Not if she wanted to ever get home again. Caleb Gonzalez had cheated, though. Long before taking his trip to the future, he'd scratched the 4-D coordinates for _their_ Tracy Island on the back wall of the transport room equipment locker. (Same one they'd found all that plastic sheeting in, actually.) The substitute aquanaut didn't intend going home, himself. Not anymore… but he didn't mind helping Piper and Alan to do it.

"You gotta be careful," he cautioned, as Al scanned those dim, ancient figures onto his wrist comm. "You gotta add maybe four or five hours to the time factor, or you'll get back before you left, and then have to hide in a closet, or something."

For real, Alan wanted to punch the dude straight in his freckled face. He'd come all this way, drained TI's power and risked people's lives, and now refused to go back with them. Yeah, okay… he'd tipped Alan off that something major was happening. That people out here needed International Rescue. But that didn't make him less of a pain in the butt.

"Show me how to enter these figures," Al grumbled, turning to head past a row of forlornly blinking work-stations.

Meanwhile, Maintenance-3 had crossed over to study that cluster of thawing corpses. Surrounded by chairs and topped with a blue-plastic sheet, the ice-mummies were all that remained of Earth's final tech crew; the ones he'd been sent to get answers from.

The tall Virgil mock-up scanned them in several frequencies, looking for ID and provenance. Only, the bodies had been robbed of everything useful; all identification destroyed by their killers. No help for Mars would come from those stacked, half-frozen corpses, and that was a problem.

Maintenance-3 had been formed and deployed to reach Earth via transport net; sent to learn what had happened; why they'd lost contact and power. This in itself was not unusual. Sometimes, he was re-formed and imprinted just to climb and repair damaged solar panels. Sometimes, to dispose of malfunctioning drones or "citizens". These tasks always ended one way, whether alone or with others: death came within hours, once his task was complete.

Job done, he could choose to find a recycling station or seek the surface, as Maintenance-2 always did. Either way, his physical shell would perish, and he would die all over again… until the system produced him once more.

Now, he was faced with a careful arrangement of non-functional citizens; real people, who had been violently terminated, cause unknown. It was not in him to sigh or feel disappointment. He was only a construct, after all. One unable to fully accomplish its task.

Maintenance-3 stepped closer to the piled bodies, moving around to get a full set of scans for Mars-Net. Then he uploaded his findings. What answers there were might still be got from the central computer, but first, there was other work to be done. Seeking to tidy the area, Maintenance-3 pulled a molecular-bond disruptor out of his tool belt, took aim and eliminated all of that massed organic waste.

Raised the control centre's temperature a scant 1.5 degrees in the process and freed a sudden torrent of atoms, unleashing strong light and a shockwave, as well. Lasted barely a micro-second; just over detection threshold for those around him.

There were additional "empties" beyond the glass wall, he sensed. Would have turned to deal with those, next, but a young female citizen prevented him.

"What are you doing?!" she demanded, evincing shock and distress. "Those were _people,_ not trash! They deserved to be buried with…with, I don't know… some kind of honour!"

Maintenance-3 took a cautious step back from the violet-haired female. She was of Earth, not Mars, and not in bio-containment. He had not been given correct protocol for such a scenario. Aware that citizens were often ruled by emotion, he tried to explain.

"Non-living organic matter will decay. There is the possibility of infection and disorder. This one is tasked with removal of waste. With defence, maintenance and replacement of faulty equipment. This one performs its task in this place, as well."

Two more approached. These were modern in bio-type, unlike the shorter, stockier primitives. They bore badges and armament, but not those of Earth or Mars. Said one (the pale-haired male),

"We are all to not knowing each other's ways. Is to being smarter then, talking before doing."

The first female remained upset, however.

"They were _people,"_ she insisted. "They had jobs and lives and families who loved them. Maybe they volunteered for this, or maybe they drew the short straw… but now they're just… _gone._ And if anyone out in those tubes thought they'd wake up to see mom or dad again…" she could not finish her statement.

Maintenance-3 considered. Hesitantly, he said,

"This one is having very few traces of memory. What you speak of, Citizen, is not well understood… but it will be added to protocol, if you will explain concepts: 'family' and 'honour'."

Like everyone else, Alan Tracy had jumped at that micro-short burst of blue light and sudden hot wind. Sensing trouble, he left Caleb inputting coordinates and went back to maybe break up a fight.

"Chill, guys," he ordered, trying for Scott-level competence. "What's going on? Where did the dead people go?"

"He discorporated them," Piper mourned, looking away. "He scattered their atoms and energy. They're _gone."_

Alan made himself wait, not wanting to blurt out something dumb like 'they already were'. Then,

"I don't think he meant anything bad, Pip. I think he was just cleaning up. Like… Zed, was it? Yeah, thanks. Like Zed says, we don't understand each other real well, yet. Work in progress, okay? And he won't do it again. _Right?"_ This last aimed at the clueless mock-Virgil.

Maintenance-3 looked from one to another citizen. These had been born from the flesh of biological parents. They had grown from childhood, accumulating knowledge that wasn't simply impressed upon new-formed, disposable tissue. He could not imagine what that must be like. Trusted Alan, though, because something within him remembered that half-grown young man.

"This one… 'I'… was in error," he admitted, struggling to adapt. "Protocol for disposal of organic waste will adjust to now include burial."

He winced, then, feeling the first twinges of oncoming death, from a body not built to endure. Always, his spells of light were so brief. His moments of consciousness… breathing, thinking, talking… no more than a flicker.

"You okay?" Alan asked Maintenance-3, as the humanoid construct swayed on its booted feet.

"I have thirty more minutes, before this body expires," the construct explained. "I have accomplished my task, uploading my findings and providing a link to this network."

"You are to going back, then?" asked Yona, the shorter, darker-haired Proximan.

"No," said Maintenance-3. "There is not power to waste on transporting a useless shell. As I detect no recycling station, I must wait until this form ceases to function, or else disrupt my own particles."

Alan scowled. Of all the stupid, unfair, awful things… to just be disposable. Made up to do a job and then _die_ , using his brothers as some kind of template!

"I said we'd help you, and I meant it. Your real name is Virgil, and they made you out of my brother. I'm not sure how, but I'll make it stop. I'll make them give you an actual body that frickin' _works_."

Kaise had come over to join them; still wild and shy but adapting to the presence of others. Now, she held out a dark square of foil-wrapped 'chocolate'.

"Here. Is to being good," she told the construct. "I-person is tasting it."

The mock-Virgil seemed perplexed by her offer, at first. He didn't look well, either; pallid and clammy. He accepted the chocolate, though, and (when Kaise mimed how) put a piece into his mouth, for the first and only time, ever. Zed offered water, too, from his drinking flask. These were incredible experiences, for one who'd always lived like a mayfly; lasting just long enough to accomplish his duty.

Alan had to leave, then, escorting Piper to the transport booth. He could've said a lot of things, as Caleb went off to join Kaise and the rest, but settled for,

"I know what he did really bothers you, Pip, and I'll do my best to make sure that it doesn't happen again, okay? Calling it a misunderstanding doesn't make anything better, I guess, but…"

Piper managed a one-sided smile, leaning into the golden-haired astronaut, looking for strength and for comfort.

"…but you're trying to help, A-T. If I didn't already love you, I would _now,_ for sure." She sniffled, some. The transport booth was open, coordinates locked in and ready to go. Piper returned his earlier kiss. Not just a shy and hesitant lip-brush, this time, and not a desperate, worry-choked clinch, either. A warm, tingling wave of love and belonging. Of: _this right here is the one. I found him._

"I'll be back in a flash," she promised, after their kiss grew all nibble-y and then broke apart. "I'll set my return for two hours from now, so I've got time to clear out, and the tube can power back up again. You guys be safe. Don't leave for Mars without me."

And then she was off, risking more than her own life to go bring them help.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, well past midnight-_

Jeff had just concluded an unsatisfactory call to Colonel Casey, when the transport alarm went off, again. Piper and Alan, most likely, with maybe a penitent Caleb Gonzalez in tow. Sitting at the desk, Jeff rubbed his bleary brown eyes. It was good to be back on Earth again, even if his presence here _did_ mean leaving Thunderbird 5 unmanned for awhile. At a time like this, he wanted his family together.

Scott had been drowsing in an armchair nearby, wearing a neural regeneration headset. Brains promised a full return of vision and hearing within twenty-four hours. For Tycho Reeves, away in Japan, it'd be more like three weeks, the engineer had fretted… and even then, total healing might prove impossible. Worth a try, though.

Jeff started to get up at the sound of that transport alarm, first taking a gulp of cold, stale coffee. But,

"I've got it, Dad," Scott assured him, removing that buzzing headset and gazing around at the dimly-lit room and tropical night. "My vision's back up near twenty-twenty, and I know where I'm headed."

Jeff began to object, as his eldest son shambled up out of that armchair and onto his feet. Three or four solicitous Mini-Maxes flitted around him like tugboats escorting an unsteady freighter. Patting back a huge yawn, Scott waved them away, adding,

"Didn't… hear…. The end of your conversation with… Casey. Do you think she's herself, or a shape-changer?"

Jeff shook his head, standing up from the desk and cracking his tense, aching neck.

"Not sure it's safe to trust anyone outside of the family, Son," he responded glumly. "She's changed a lot… but stress and responsibility could account for that. Not sure about the World Council, either. Don't know who we can talk to, or what to say, if we did."

The reactivated astronaut raked a big hand through his short, iron-grey hair. Then, turning quiet, he said,

"We've got a lot to discuss, Scott. There are things about our heritage that I've never told you before, because… well, you were young, and then I got trapped by the Hood. Since then, things have been moving too fast. Soon, though. I promise."

Scott set the neural device aside on the desk, where it emitted a string of faint beeps and one solid, metallic _tchik._ His vision and hearing really were better, now. He could see Dad with almost no blurring at all.

Moved by sudden impulse, the pilot cornered the desk to place a hand on his father's broad shoulder.

"The past is only as bad as you let it be, Dad," he said. "It's how you play the hand you're dealt, that shows who you are." He'd heard from Virgil some of what Kane had revealed. Maybe believed it… maybe knew better, down in the heart of him.

Jeff reached across to pat his son's hand, signaling both _'thanks'_ and _'enough'._

"Get down there and find out what's happened, Scott. We'll talk more, later. Take one of your brothers. Brains set up a containment field, so whoever's in there 'll keep till you show up to free them."

"Yessir," the pilot assented, already moving. He wasn't in uniform but figured he could always suit up on the way. Easy to do at night, in a sleeping and bone-weary household.

Stopped by the infirmary first, to pick up a brother. John, as it happened, who was simply nearest the door. Lee was on watch and gave him a cheerful wave, when Scott strode in to waken the drowsy redhead.

"On your feet," the pilot whispered, giving his astronaut sibling a brotherly shake. "We've got visitors down in the transport lab. Dad wants a welcoming committee and full report. _Tag,_ you're it."

Luck of the draw, accident of positioning. Whatever, John got up; stretching his 6'4'' frame like a cat.

"Roger that…" he whispered back, pausing long enough to kiss Ridley's forehead. She was unconscious again, because the med-bots worked best on a sleeping patient. "Back before you know it, Captain," he promised her.

Next fell into step beside Scott, who was halfway out the door.

"Alan's back with our runaway?" John wondered aloud, once they reached the main passage.

"Hopefully. If not, Gonzalez can wait. We're understrength for another high-stakes reluctant rescue. Remember Morocco?"

John nodded.

"It'd be tough to forget. That jackass refused to leave and had the weapons to back himself up with. If it hadn't been for Gordon showing up in the Mole…"

"…Plus, Brains' fast-acting sleep mist," put in Scott.

"…And an uploaded virus, he'd still be jammed in that cave. _Dead,_ but in place."

Scott shook his head, hanging a left for the transport lab.

"They put up a real fight sometimes, don't they? Or else fake needing a rescue, just to meet one of us."

Like had happened in Santa Fe, to Virgil and Gordon. That situation had been incredibly tense and ludicrous, both. See, the people they rescued weren't always grateful, or innocent. Sometimes they were desperate fugitives, fleeing the scene of a crime. The brothers had plenty to discuss; but then, as they neared Brains' underground research facility, Scott changed the subject. Dropping his voice to the barest of whispers, the pilot said,

"I need help with something, John. It's… a cartridge of some kind, containing what feels like another whole universe. A lot like ours, only Granddad's still living, and Mom, too. Not sure if it's real or just…"

"A virtual world, with programmed replicas?" John suggested. "Like the training sims?"

Scott took a deep breath. Shrugged, walking suddenly faster.

"I hope not," he admitted, barely audible over the climate control and their own striding footfalls. "I want it to somehow be real, Little Brother. I want to go back there and just… farm. Get my hands dirty milking cows and mucking out stables. Ride that d*mn tractor and talk to Granddad, again."

John wasn't sure what to think of all this, and didn't have time to ask, because they'd reached the transport lab, where he used his palm-print and code to get in. Walked through the door to find Piper Austin, sitting alone at mid-disk; knees drawn halfway up and chin on her fist, surrounded by briskly sparkling force. She'd taken off most of that bulky space armour and waited there; violet hair mussed, looking a little bit lost.

"Hey, guys," she said, scrambling back to her feet. "Getting suspicious in your old age, or just starting a Piper collection?"

Scott frowned at the girl. He was nearing thirty and didn't like jokes about age. John thought it was funny, though; ordering the computer to cut off that hissing and popping containment field, while hiding a very slight smile.

"Where's Alan?" the pilot demanded, too tired to keep things polite. "Did you find Gonzalez? What's going on, over there?"

Pip could have lost her temper and freaked out on them, but maybe she'd learnt something valuable back in the future. Maybe she'd learnt to let go and forgive.

"So, the bright side is, we're alive," she told them, leaping light as a cat off that knee-high neutronium disk. "Alan's still out at Earth-700, Caleb found us, and it's all gone to brimstone and crap, again. I'm supposed to rally the troops, 'cause Earth and Mars have gone way off course."

Scott Tracy pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, feeling a monster headache beginning to flower.

"Any _good_ news?" he probed.

"Uh… depends on your threshold of funsies, I guess. Caleb hooked up with his girlfriend again… you guys apparently still exist over then, in, y'know, scary disposable format… and I really, seriously need to visit the potty."

The two Thunderbird pilots glanced at each other, as their antsy recruit bolted away to the head.

"Did she mean IR as a whole, or us, personally?" Scott wondered, hitting his wrist comm for Dad.

"I'm more concerned with 'way off course'," the astronaut grunted. That phrase could have meant anything from political chaos to actual orbit-shifts, starring a massive impactor.

 _Great._ John pulled up a virtual keyboard and screen, alternately cursing and working the numbers. As Scott called up their father and commenced his report, John pinged everyone else.

They were going to need Brains, Max, Dad and a crap-ton of nanites, the astronaut figured, because barring a technical miracle, they could not bring their Birds or equipment through that small disk. Just muscle, courage and teamwork.


	32. Chapter 32

Short one, but kind of emotional. Knew it was coming, but still got a bit of a gut-twist. Thank you, guys.

 **32**

 _On a lightless and wandering Earth, Tracy Island, far in the future-_

He had to keep pinching himself. Had to keep going back over to touch her. Hugging her close and filling his eyes, just to be certain he'd actually done it; found the girl that he loved, safe and whole. So much could've gone wrong with his plan, that it scared him to think about. So, Caleb just shoved that aside. Plenty of other stuff to deal with, anyways, right?

Like, he knew for a fact that Alan… his used-to-be boss… was super ticked-off at him. Duh. And he understood why, too. Being gifted the chance to join a team like the Thunderbirds… to work with the dang _Colonel…_ Caleb had dumped their butts and snuck off into the future. Now, thanks to Honoured Seege, he was a Proximan Home Guard, with the uniform and ID-tag to prove it. More than that, his heart was right _here;_ stapled like glue to Kaise Bek-dotter. See, he'd had to break one promise, one set of bonds, in order to keep all the others.

Earth and Mars were in trouble? Proxima B now the only real center of power? No problem, yo. Caleb intended to straighten things out. The key to all that was International Rescue... and the one-time substitute aquanaut had got a sudden idea.

Looking around at the warmed-up control centre, he spotted Alan Tracy by one of the tech consoles, working with Maintenance-3. Stuff was coming online all over the place, thanks mostly to those two.

Caleb kissed the most amazing girl on _anyone's_ planet, then stepped away from his friends for a minute. Squaring his shoulders, he started to walk; rehearsing the notion poking around in his head. Didn't want to get laughed at, y'know?

Anyways, threading a path around consoles and office chairs, the dark-haired young man approached Alan and Maintenance-3. Weird, how much the Martian defence-bot looked like a life-sized and muscular action toy, modeled on Virgil Tracy.

Sensing Caleb's presence (and not, like, hating his guts) the construct straightened to look at him. Not Alan. _He_ got tense as a slab and kept right on working. Felt betrayed or something, y'know?

"Uh… hey, guys," Caleb ventured. "I've, um, been thinking."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Alan snapped, not looking up from his screen. Its glow made his face all washed-out and stony. Or, maybe that was just worry.

Maintenance-3 wobbled a little, bracing himself with one big hand to the brushed-metal tech console.

"You have a suggested action, Citizen Caleb?" he asked. Those warm brown eyes and that voice were pure Virgil Tracy, as filtered through somebody's monotone chat-bot. Well… not _totally_ monotone. Exposure to others was starting to give him some pitch and inflection. The ex-Thunderbird nodded, risking an uncertain smile.

"Sure do," he said, injecting some iron into his stance. Caleb Gonzalez hadn't faced screaming kiddies on coupon day, ridden 60-foot waves and explored the deep ocean in Thunderbird 4 only to back down, now.

"See, this is Tracy Island, right? I mean, my coordinates 're still in place, and so is Mr. Brain's lab network. So, y'know… if all _that's_ still around… maybe the Birds are, too? Locked away under robot guard, or something? I mean, it'd be worth checking out... right?"

Alan had stopped pretending to code. He stayed perfectly still for a second or two, hunched down over that console and thinking, hard. Straightened up all at once and turned to face Caleb.

"It's been seven-hundred years," the astronaut challenged, sky-blue eyes narrow and fierce. "I don't see IR logos on _anything_. Why in heck would the Birds be around?"

Gotcha! Caleb Gonzalez was nothing, if not persuasive. Could've sold sand to a rock-lizard, out in the frickin' Mojave.

"Because all this time later, you're still remembered. _Dude,_ Mars designed their caretakers off your stolen genome. Virgil's anyway. Earth built their last shelter, right here on the Island, _because it meant safety and hope!_ Bet me, some of the Birds made it through. Think about it, Al: last time we came out here, no one did any exploring. Nobody knows what's hidden away!"

Alan had to take his word for that, because he hadn't come along when Mr. Brain, Scott, John, Virgil, Sheffield and Caleb rescued the very last people on Earth. Plus, y'know, the Mechanic. He'd been there, too… but not Gordon or Alan.

The golden-haired astronaut started to say something. Might've been _"Heck yeah, let's do this,"_ or _"Dude, you're a moron; take off!"_ The former aquanaut never found out, because right then Maintenance-3 just collapsed. Pitched sideways into their arms like a surfboard toppling over onto the sand. And, _goof,_ he was heavy!

"Dang, Bro! Lay off the wing-dings and cheeseburgers!" Caleb gasped, getting a lifeguard's grip on the sagging construct. Only, it wasn't funny. Not really.

Poor dude was dying right in front of them, as that temp-built body of his went out of commission, bit by scratch-and-claw bit.

"Unable… to assist, any longer," he apologized, gasping his words from lungs that struggled to function. "Ending soon."

Yeah. No grudges, no arguments, at a time like this. Working together, Caleb and Alan got Maintenance-3 lowered onto the floor, with some of that plastic sheeting for a cushion, and several coats for a blanket. Wanted so badly to help the guy… but he wasn't built to survive. No digestive tract at all, below a rudimentary stomach. Heart and lungs already straining, neural net falling to bits.

Kaise knelt down to hold his hand, stroking that pale forehead and damp, raven-dark hair. Zed and Yona tried some stuff, then. Like most guards, they had their first aid kits… only, there were no wounds to bandage; no illness to treat, and their pills wouldn't do any good.

They'd known, okay? They'd all known he was dying… but hadn't believed that it couldn't be stopped. That there'd be not a dang thing they could do.

So, Al started talking. Told all about Virgil and football… music… art… Emma Kraft and Thunderbird 2. How the big guy was maybe the bravest and best of them all, with more heart than good sense, sometimes. How he, John and Scott would always kid about who was the best pilot. How he loved steak and french-fries, scrambled eggs with ketchup, and pecan pie smothered in ice-cream. Hated salads, slept with a nightlight until he was twelve. How he liked to pull pranks and make up dumb lyrics to popular songs. But most of all, loved to fly and work with machines. How he'd made a friend of the dreaded Mechanic, even.

"All of that's part of you," Alan told him, as Maintenance-3's grip slackened, and his wide brown eyes began to grow dim. "You're not just a… a _part_ they can use and throw out. You're Virgil _Tracy._ You're my brother."

The fading construct had not very much breath left. He said, faintly and raggedly,

"Not forget… will… tell 1 and 2." Then, with terrible, last-minute effort, gasping blood that was already brown, "Mars-net… highest defence… block… blocking transport."

Caleb and Al exchanged looks. There would be trouble getting to Mars? Maybe a riled-up defence network, intent on stopping intruders?

Kaise ignored all of that. Speaking softly to Maintenance-3, the fragile blonde leaned down and said,

"Ama, Pada going also to sleep. Good-morning later, when Kaise-you coming to join them. Ama, Pada finding 3-person there, telling him 'hi'. Not all alone in the dark, 3-Person. Promise."

"We'll come and find you on Mars, Bro," Caleb told him. "This isn't the end, 'cause we're your friends, and we're hard as heck to get rid of."

All that 3-Virgil could move was his eyes, but they tracked round that circle of faces once, as if trying to memorize. Trying to keep. Then a last, laboured breath grated out of him, leaving nothing behind but the shell of a friend and a brother.


	33. Chapter 33

Hi, you guys! Happy Easter! =) Thanks for reading.

 **33**

 _Tracy Island, close to midmorning-_

Those who could wake up and walk had met in the ring to attend Piper's briefing. The situation just felt so _weird_ to the girl. Golden tropical sunshine poured in through the balcony windows like warm, soothing honey; completely different from Earth, 700 FN.

Surrounded by all those stern faces… Mrs. Tracy, Dr. Hackenbacker, Scott and John, Lady P and the Colonel… Piper could have turned skittish. Instead, the violet-haired astronaut took a deep breath and just told the truth. Told what had happened to Earth and to Mars.

"Not sure why… A-T was still looking that up when I left… but Earth's been knocked off course and out of the solar system. Mars is spiraling into the Sun. Passing the orbit of Mercury, now, according to Maintenance-3."

Brains had begun muttering to himself. Punching figures into a hovering virtual keypad, he summoned an animation, in the holo-sphere at mid-ring.

"I h- have, ah… have c- considered the likely scenarios," announced their dark-haired and slim engineer. "G- Given the timeframe of, ah… of s- seven hundred years, and the altered c- coordinates for Earth at that l- locus, I have calculated a source and t- trajectory for an object m- massive enough to, ah… to d- dislodge both worlds while escaping d- detection."

The holo-globe ran several fast simulations, sending a huge dark object slashing into their system from different angles, with always the same grim results.

Said John, after accepting a mug of black coffee from Max,

"Have to be a rogue planet the size of Jupiter, at least. Probably from one of the Magellanic clouds."

Hackenbacker gave the tall, red-haired astronaut a rueful smile, saying,

"Y- Your reasoning skills have, ah… have n- not diminished, my friend." Then, "Thank you, Max," as he accepted a cup of strong Turkish coffee, himself. At this point caffeine was being delivered in industrial-strength doses to keep them alert, and the room fairly bloomed with its warm, heady scent.

"Anything we can do to prevent the rogue planet from ever arriving, Brains?" Jeff cut in, frowning. He sat leaning forward, arms braced on his knees and hands loosely clasped, due back in London twelve hours ago. Before the engineer could reply, Piper waved a hand for attention.

"Um, guys… here's the thing. We already _did_ that, remember? Went back and messed with events, I mean, to prevent a future disaster. Only, look what happened: _another_ problem, at exactly the same time. Fixing things doesn't seem to be, y'know… helping anything!" Piper blushed pickled-beet red, then; wishing that she hadn't sounded so stupid. They didn't laugh at her, though.

Said Scott, after swallowing part of a toasted cinnamon bagel with thickly spread butter,

"You're saying that no matter _what_ we try, something will always go wrong, seven hundred years from now? As in, we're essentially screwed?"

Piper spread both hands, wishing that Alan were there… or Cody, Jan, Josh… heck, even Caleb. Anyone who could explain things better than she could.

"I mean," the girl argued, " _think_ about it. Twice in a row can't be coincidence, can it? And butting in again might make things worse. Maybe the best we can do is handle the problem _there,_ from that end. Y'know… saving the lives that're left. Otherwise, we could get stuck doing it over and over again, trapped in… in…"

"A c- closed, time-like loop," Brains concluded, rising to pace the ring. Moving with jerky, agitated strides, he went on, saying, "Events in such a trap can b- be shifted, but not, ah… not p- prevented. Thus, the continual future d- disasters."

Buddy Pendergast emerged from the kitchen, next; shower-fresh and still a bit wobbly on his newly healed meat leg. There because specializing in loud action videos did not make him stupid; just popular.

"'Ow'd we get bunged like that in th' first place?" he wondered, coming over with tea and a plateful of chocolate bikkies.

Everyone shifted around to make room on the battered old ring couch, but it was Grandma Tracy who frowned and said,

"I ain't altogether for sure… but didn't it start when somebody triggered that time crystal o' yours, Brains?"

Jeff inhaled sharply, straightened up in his seat.

"The time crystal," he mused, raking a hand through his dense grey hair. "It cycles at seven hundred years, and _it's_ trapped here on the Island. Prevented from leaping away by…"

"A v- very powerful dampening f- field," finished the engineer, who'd suddenly stopped his pacing. "P- Perhaps it must be released, if we are t- to escape this cycle of sh- shifting future catastrophes."

John had been staring into his untouched coffee, thinking. Now the astronaut looked up and said,

"Could you patch it into one of the Birds… Thunderbird 2, maybe… so we can get to the danger zone with our rescue equipment and then let it go?"

Brains considered, rubbing at the back of his own skinny neck with one hand.

"We would then b- be forced to abandon Th- Thunderbird 2 in 2768," he objected.

"We'll deal with that issue when we come to it," decided Scott, taking sudden charge. With Penny beside him and his vision and hearing back, the handsome pilot was once more in solid command-mode. "I'm more concerned with that bootleg copy of IR you mentioned, Piper. How can they…"

"Not _they,_ just one that I met. A disposable mock-up of Virgil sent to Earth when the transport network came back online. The Mars system created him to investigate, report what he found and then die. _He_ mentioned others… Maintenance-1 and -2… but I guess they stayed home on Mars."

"Die?" probed the Colonel, giving Piper that trademark intense brown stare. "As in, scheduled for termination?"

"No… nothing like that. M-3's just not complete. Not built to last more than a couple of hours. Like they've got plans to build Tracys at need, but don't want them around all the time asking questions, y'know?"

Scott's blue eyes narrowed. In a dangerously quiet voice, he said,

"Someone's making copies of us, sending them out to handle their dirty-work, then shutting them down… how?"

"Organ failure, I think," guessed the young astronaut. "Starvation or thirst from not having a way to process their food, maybe. I dunno, but it's gotta suck, and Alan promised we'd help. He sent me out here to call for emergency backup."

"I'll go," said John.

"So will I," added Jeff, turning to regard his oldest son. "Provided you have no objections, Scott?"

"None at all, Sir," the pilot assured him. "We'll need all the help we can get, and that includes Brains, a couple of Maxes, Captain Taylor and our messenger, here." Giving the girl a brief nod, Scott next turned his attention to Penny, who'd been silent the while, sipping her tea and just listening.

"Sorry to leave so soon, Pen," he told her, pulling the lovely blonde closer. "But something's gone wrong over there, and we've got to go fix it, this time for good."

She sighed, setting her pink-flowered teacup on a nearby low table.

"Clearly. I had rather hoped to lend assistance but am truly unable to fathom how I might aid in your efforts, Dearest."

"You can help Grandma, Virgil, Kayo and Gordon hold the fort, Penny. Keep an eye on our invalids, and that dormant shape-changer. When Ming and Kelly get back, let them know that I've placed you in charge of the New Crew."

It was a great deal of responsibility; no mere token to fob off on a dead-weight paramour, and Penelope rose to the challenge.

"Parker and I shall maintain order amongst the recruits, Scott Darling. All shall be well at this end of matters, I assure you. At least, when you've returned once again, home and dry."

They kissed then, like two people forever saying "farewell" and "I wish…"

Jeff was already standing, mind about ten steps ahead of the others. Turning to Pip, he asked,

"What about Earth? How many survivors, and in what condition?"

"Almost a hundred, Sir," she replied, feeling the same thrill that rescued people got, when bathed in Jeff Tracy's direct, warm regard. "All except one packed in life-support tubes. I guess most people left the planet after the trouble started, while the rest just dug in and went to sleep, hoping to ride things out. There's people on Mars, too, but I don't know much about those. Maintenance-3 was more interested in scanning computer files and zapping bodies, than talking."

(See, maybe A-T didn't get it, but those folks were gone forever, now; their bodies and energy lost before their souls had been freed. At least, that's what her mom would have said.)

"So, these Tracy clones may not be allies?" asked John, looking bleak and a little disturbed.

Piper gazed directly at him for a second, and then looked away. John Tracy was on a whole 'nother level of attractive. Being this close to the guy made thinking a problem.

"Um… I might be the wrong one to ask," she admitted. "I'm working through something he did… not on purpose, I guess… but it killed those poor dead guys for good and all. No coming back, ever." Didn't expect them to get it, but some of the team were quietly religious, and Brains had a handy five-second delay on their public camera feed.

Taking over the conversation (and deleting Piper's last comments) the engineer said,

"Earth is m- most likely too, ah… too f- far away and too large to return to her orbit. B- But the survivors may be, ah… be g- gathered and moved to a safer location. M- Mars is far s- smaller. Though, even at that…"

John stood up, as well, brushing bagel crumbs from his lap.

"Simple. Bring plenty of nanites and program them to create giant thrusters," the redhead suggested. "That close to the Sun, power _won't_ be an issue. Not if we harness a flare. Use part of Mars for your raw materials, then slingshot the planet into Earth's old location. Once it's in place, fire a colony-terraform bomb to reinject life and mop up contaminants, crash an ice-asteroid, then shift your refugees back to their caverns and launch that d*mn time crystal out into space. Problem solved."

Seconds later, he and Brains were deep in the technical details, leaving almost everyone else stunned and blinking. Not Scott, though. Still concerned about those short-lived mock Tracys, he mused,

"Do they know who they come from? How would they react to seeing one of us? Will they realize we're trying to help, or view all of this as some kind of attack?"

Tough questions, which could only be answered on Mars and in action… but help was coming, just as soon as the team saddled up.


	34. Chapter 34

Hi, you guys! Hoping your Easter is filled with blessings, chocolate and love! Whirl Girl: funny how that worked out, isn't it? =) Thanks, Bow Echo, Creative Girl, WG and Tikatu, for all your kind (prescient) words. Hi there, Spypup. ;)

 **34**

 _Earth, 700FN-_

In the bleak starlit sky above an ice-shrouded planet, something had happened at last. First came a tone; achingly pure and not so much loud as deeply gripping. The timbre and note of the Bang; of Creation, itself. Next a flash of blue light, brushing the face of a once-living world torn away from its distant sun.

For just an instant, the stars dimmed, and Earth's sky turned blue once again. Shadows blossomed and grew amid deep crags and valleys of ice; bruise-dark and fleeting, shifting like hands on a clock face.

A vessel appeared out of nothing but sheer probability. Not Thunderbird 2 but the silvery Prototype, which was larger, long-range and entirely space-proof. Briefly outlined by a pearl-coloured gleam, the giant Prototype lanced through the sky, barely clearing the glaciers and mountain-top. No islands, for there were no more oceans. Just a few scattered crags of black stone, dotting a graveyard of wind-chiseled ice.

Inside the cockpit, a perfect storm of lights and alarms ripped the air, for that patch… the link between Bird and powerful time crystal… wasn't entirely sound. Too much vessel to cover. Parts of the Prototype materialised maybe a femtosecond sooner than the rest of the craft, leading to chaos and almost disaster. Construction nanites sprang into action, fighting to meld all its various bits once again. Meanwhile, the giant Bird juddered and stalled, slipping backward; closer to jagged white spires of ice.

In the face of noise, shouts, alarms and fast reconnections, Lee Taylor just hung on and flew. No GPS, no satellite feeds or local dang towers. Nothing but static and cold, barren emptiness. Beside him, Jeff Tracy first silenced those shrieking klaxons, then tried one channel after another. Finally got a very faint ping, almost directly beneath them. Wrestling that yoke with all that he had, Taylor lined up with the spot where the Island had nestled, back in gentler times.

"Got sumthin'?" Lee prodded, getting the hang of that dense, chilly air. Without signal or daylight, he was essentially flying blind through a much-condensed atmosphere. There _was_ a small sun hanging low in the sky; not much brighter than Venus, now. Just a faraway glimmer, too cold and distant to light up the sky.

"That's affirm," Jeffrey responded, working like mad to boost the faint signal. "Looks like an old distress beacon and a couple of wrist comms, about a mile and a half under all _that."_

"Well... sh*t," grunted Lee, banking their half-mended aircraft around. "What've we got that'll melt us a hole through a mountain of ice?"

"The Mole," said Jeff, still tweaking that muffled and wavering signal. "If we heat up its drill, that is."

Then,

"Bingo! It's not much, even at highest gain, but we're linked. Hang on, calling in. Island Base from Thunderbird 7. Repeat, Island Base from Thunderbird 7, do you copy? Alan, are you there? Can you hear me?"

A burst of static followed, punctured by short zaps of highly excited speech.

 _"Dad?!****** Base***** good to**** -ped un-****ice*** Pi***"_

Jeff couldn't make much sense of all that, except that his youngest son was alive and able to answer him, somewhere below. By this time, Scott, John and Piper had crowded into the cockpit, leaving Brains and Max aft with a pulsating shard of Creation.

Said Scott (who hated just riding along),

"We need to find someplace to land."

"Or make one," John suggested, peering out through the viewport at nothing but glacier and stone. "In this climate, a sustained microwave beam would melt some of that ice. Then we could wait for the water to refreeze flat."

"Way ahead o' ya, Boys," grunted Taylor, who had switched to hover and lined up a target zone. Bumpy and rifted, the sucker couldn't be landed on now, but fifteen minutes o' microwave blasts 'd smooth out them rough spots.

Piper left them to it. Not being rated on Thunderbird 7, she stood there gazing with wide blue eyes at the starlit snowscape beneath them.

"Whoa," she whispered, more to herself than the others. "It sure looks different, up here."

A Mini Max swooped round her head and chirped something back in Morse code. She caught only bits of his statement, having just now started to learn beeps-and-trills. Pip smiled at the tiny, hovering robot, which reminded her of those companion Life-Souls in Zombie Run. Only, y'know, less annoying.

"It's home, but it isn't," she told him, not just meaning that splinter of ice-locked volcano. "Not anymore." What had once been covered in jungle and life was now scraped to the bedrock; splintered and dead.

Surprisingly, John had been listening in. Now, over engine rumble and cockpit chatter, the astronaut said,

"Not _our_ home anymore, but someone's, eventually. We can set up an engine to nudge it at Barnard's Star… leave a terraform bomb where melting ice will trigger the thing, and trust life to take care of the rest."

Piper nodded and put out a finger for Minnie to rest against, blinking at sudden sharp tears.

"That sounds like an awesome idea, Sir. I didn't want to think of Earth alone and abandoned out here, forever."

John smiled at her, briefly; not much liking the 'sir', but passing it over.

"Me, either," he admitted, turning away from the viewport to face her. "Earth might be too massive to turn completely around, but she's not so heavy we can't shift her a degree or two. We'll get her headed someplace safe."

Piper was perfectly still for a long, quiet moment. Then, as a wonderful, pent-breath, nervous idea took hold, the girl blurted,

"S… John… do you think… if I had a possible star in mind, farther than Barnard's but, y'know, headed this way and more stable… could you shift Earth toward _that?_ In time for a colony ship to arrive and wake up?"

The astronaut started to say something, then caught himself, studying Piper intently. Maybe he'd guessed she was trying to help out her folks, but he didn't say so.

"I'd have to work up the specs. Greater distance means increased acceleration, if you've got a particular timeframe in mind."

Yeah. There was so much she wanted to say, then. Like:

 _"Please help them,"_

 _"Please don't say no,"_

 _"Please make it work… I need this to work."_

But, instead, Piper just nodded. She had those coordinates memorized, along with the sleep-ship's projected arrival date.

"I'll do whatever it takes, John. For real, I know just where to send Earth. There's a G-type star and… and folk's 'll be waiting. Good ones, ready to make a fresh start, someplace new."

John Tracy wasn't the best in the world at emotions, but he recognized genuine anguish and need when he saw it. Dealt with that sort of thing all the time, on Thunderbird 5. Inhaling sharply, he made a snap decision right then and there; swayed by the hopeful gaze of a skinny, purple-haired girl.

There would be problems, of course. Such as how to catch up with a colony ship that'd been given a centuries-early head-start. Nothing that more power and thought couldn't resolve, though.

"Not that new," John corrected, "considering they'll have slept for a thousand years and crossed vast reaches of space, just to meet up with Earth, again… But I think they'll get over their disappointment."

The girl said nothing. She couldn't. Tears and laughter made awkward companions. They caught in your throat, prickled your eyes and stuffed up your nose… and there were no words at all with which to say: 'thank you'. Only a sudden, fierce hug that came straight from her heart.

Then it was time to get started. There was a landing pad to melt out and refreeze. A Bird to set down, and the Mole to bring out, so that a small team of fighters could burn their way through to the very last people on Earth.


	35. Chapter 35

Many thanks! Crazy-busy week, as we wrap up the school year, and me with paperwork still to finish... Bow Echo, Tikatu, Creative Girl and Whirl Girl, hugs!

 **35**

 _On an outcast and ice-locked planet, distant in time and location-_

A steady pulse of microwave energy soon melted the rugged top of that glacier, and that was step one. Minutes later it froze in a lightning-like sweep of crystallization, as swarms of Mini-Maxes scattered a small hail of super-cooled ice shards on top. (For this mission, Brains had packed everything he could think of, and nanites enough to build what could not be imagined, from home.)

Meanwhile, Captain Taylor chewed spearmint gum and kept the Prototype (now Thunderbird 7, according to Jeffery) at a low hover. That distant pale sparkle of sun didn't provide much illumination, so he launched a network of aerial floodlights; each about the size and shape of a football and producing a warm amber glow. ("Almost entirely not unlike sunshine", as Piper had wryly observed.)

Dense, cold air shifted and puddled around them, creating a bit of a wind. Beams of light scattered and splintered on frozen crags and the deep blue abyss of a nearby crevasse. Robot floodlights swooped and buzzed, dipping in and out of the Prototype's energy field for a recharge.

Down in the forward hold, Scott and John Tracy raced to refit the Mole as an ice-bore. The job was mostly computerized, but the Tracys left little to chance, because it was the detail you missed… the one tiny part you _hadn't_ checked out… that always got you in the end. (And they had the sim-scars to prove it.)

The solid and powerful Mole was clamped in her braces at mid-hold, silvery drill and tough yellow chassis gleaming in the ship's chilly interior lighting. Beautiful in her own way, she had saved many hundreds of desperate people; trapped down where nobody else could reach them in time.

Scott was extremely busy with the placement and conformation of the drill's new heating unit, leaving John to handle both sets of treads on his own. Virgil's artwork decorated the low-slung, heavily armoured vehicle. The pilot couldn't help smiling a little, shaking his head at those cartoon pictures of hard-hatted, bright-eyed gophers. He'd have said something about it to John, but the astronaut was down underneath, transforming the trolley and Mole treads to clawed 'snow chain' mode.

Piper Austin was already inside, sorting and checking off rescue gear. Hordes of Maxes and auto-mechs zipped around through the air and over the metal deck, filling the hold with their clamorous rattle and bang. Scott almost wished for his deafness back… but not quite. It had been terribly isolating to not hear the quietest, most valuable sounds; conversation, wind, birdsong, the ocean. All things considered, the pilot could handle a little unwanted noise.

Once that flurry of refits died down, a bright amber warning light began flashing, high on the hold's ribbed alloy ceiling.

"You boys strap down," called his uncle, over the crackling intercom. "Landing strip's froze solid, and I'm fixin' ta put her down."

"Yessir," Scott responded, looking up at the speaker and camera lens. "Dad and Brains on their way?"

"They was headed below, last I saw 'em," Taylor answered. "Oughta be there in a minute or two, barrin' any unfortunate Tracy-style incidents."

Scott snorted.

"I'd ask how much trouble they could get into between cockpit and hold, but the way our luck's been running, with an unmarked, unfinished interior…"

"B- But with Max leading the, ah… the w- way," Brains concluded, clambering down through an overhead hatch and bulkhead-mounted ladder. "We h- have arrived in one, ah… one p- piece, as expected."

Jeff dropped in after the skinny engineer; all negligent power and easy grace. Scarcely touched the bars of the ladder, coming down. Scott straightened unconsciously. If his father had lost anything to advancing age, _he_ couldn't see it.

"Ready to go?" asked the grey-haired Colonel, coming forward. Behind him, Max reconfigured himself to handle that ladder and hatch. Came rattling in like a jointed, white plastic snake, gripping those rungs with dozens of powerful pincers. Might have bent a few rungs in the process but got to the hold.

Facing his father, Scott said,

"She can handle wind, snow and blizzard, Sir. Burrow through ice without losing traction, too, if John's finished the…"

"All done," said his brother, climbing out from under the Mole. "She'll head back up through the ice, if it isn't too cracked or unstable."

Jeff gave his sons a brief nod.

"Well done, Boys," he told them, striding over to leap for the Mole's access ladder. The main hatch, of course, was high on the vehicle's port side.

Scott could tell from a shift in the Bird's engine pitch that Taylor was bringing her down. Time to get aboard and strap in, he figured. But, legends and scientists, first. Jeff Tracy had no trouble scaling that access ladder, using only his muscular arms till he'd climbed high enough for his booted feet to catch hold of a thrumming steel rung.

Brains was another matter, entirely; not being athletic enough to reach that ladder, even when tip-toed at full stretch on one of her heavy neutronium tank treads. Not a problem. Scott linked both hands and squatted down so that Dr. Hackenbacker could place a foot in the socket, braced upright by John.

"I am n- not at all s- sure about this," the older man protested fretfully. "Max c- could quite easily arrange a b- boarding ramp, and…"

"Relax, Brains," Scott assured him. "I haven't lost one, yet, and don't plan on starting with you. Ready? Yes, you are. On three. One, two… _three!"_

And with that, Scott Tracy straightened back up, boosting the awkwardly flailing new father high enough to reach that bottom-most rung, where he kicked and scrabbled till a swarm of Maxes coalesced underneath him, forming a metal and plastic staircase.

"That's cheating," accused John, smiling that lopsided smile of his.

Scott shrugged at his redhaired brother, then made use of the Max-ramp, himself. In short order, all were aboard and strapped down, with Scott taking control, while Jeff, John, Piper, Brains and Max settled aft. There were no windows back there. The Mole was a working rescue vehicle, not an excursion craft. She was built to drill through dirt, rock, rubble and (now) ice, reaching people with no other hope but International Rescue.

Captain Taylor kept up a running description of events as he eased back on the Bird's impellers, bringing her slowly down to that melted and refrozen landing strip.

"Funny, ain't it," he mused, "that all this used ta be ocean an' tropical island? B'lieve that's th' tip o' San Matteo, over yonder."

Beside him, Mini Max buzzed and chirped like a robot humming bird. Taylor nodded, easing the Prototype forward and down a bit more. As wind like cold syrup trickled around them, he stroked his moustache, remarking,

"You got that right, Mike. Earth ain't out o' th' picture jus' yet. Where life was, wunst, it c'n come right back, again." Because, even if things looked a mite grim at the moment, hope lay buried, beneath.

The huge, silvery Bird came down amid lashing, pale-violet energy fields and aerial floodlights. The ice beneath her quivered and hummed, sprouting a network of chiming cracks. It held, though; even when all of the Prototype's weight came to bear.

"Green acrost th' board," Taylor announced. "Cuttin' engine power an' initiatin' launch sequence."

Inside the hold, in the clamped-down Mole, Scott watched his instruments, finally engaging the rescue drill's powerful fusion reactor. He heard and felt the vehicle rumble to life all around him.

"Copy that, Thunderbird 7. Mole is live and ready to go."

The controls were fairly simple, compared with Thunderbird 1, but not as familiar. He'd have to pay strict attention to what he was doing, Scott reminded himself. Then Lee called back, saying,

"Ramp engaged. You fellers stay sharp, out there. Holler if ya need backup."

"Will do, Sir."

The Prototype's broad, skidded landing gear scraped against ice, more or less evenly. Might have been a slight yaw to starboard, but not enough to call for a wave-off. Scott felt the Bird's bass grumble die slowly away. Then, with a spinning red light and alarm klaxon, the forward bulkhead dropped out of sight, letting in flurries of ice and tendrils of crackling energy.

Scott gunned the engines, preparing to disembark. It was hard to get his bearings, at first, because the floodlights kept shifting position, causing shadows to quiver and sway like something glimpsed underwater.

The broad neutronium ramp squealed and thudded on quick-frozen ice. Then the siren and light cut off, leaving the hold in relative peace. Next a series of bangs shook the Mole, as her clamps released, freeing her.

Scott throttled forward, sending a tracked, multi-ton digging machine surging out of the hold and onto their booming and creaking ramp. Of course, he had glanced out the viewports a time or two, but the grim reality of Earth, 700 FN, still came as a cold-water shock.

It was utterly meaningless to speculate about the hour, as they no longer circled a star, and only those darting robot floodlights shed any radiance. Thermometer plunged and settled at 375 degrees below zero, while the air was so turbid and cold that it acted like seawater.

Pressing a foot pedal, Scott rattled and jounced them off of the ramp and onto the ice, soon learning that "smooth and flat" to a massive spacecraft was "bumpy as h*ll" to a nuclear-powered rescue machine. Felt like racing the speedboat on twelve-foot waves, back home. Fortunately, they didn't have to stay out very long.

Following the very faint ping of Alan's wrist comm, Scott drove the Mole as close as he dared, and then braked. Craning his head around over one shoulder, he called,

"Hang on, back there. We're going in!"

Got acknowledgement from the rear, then triggered the trolley's pneumatic lift feature, causing the Mole to tilt about 37 degrees nose-downward. He next warmed up the drill and started her turning, before releasing the clamps that held the Mole to her tracked and motorized carriage.

His view changed from floodlit sky and high crags to nothing but rippling ice, as Scott pitched forward in his straps, and the people behind him slid around in their rear-facing seats. The drill's engine noise rose in pitch from mutter to scream.

Then, calling,

"Mole is go!" he retracted the trolley clamps, releasing their craft to shift off her carriage and into the ice, head-first. There was a crash-like shock, and a noise like a backhoe, attacking cement. Ice flew in great, jagged shards. Soon, that shielded viewport showed nothing but darkness, while the noise turned apocalyptic.

You got a feel for different materials, after a few dozen missions. Ice didn't handle like dirt, stone or rubble. Instead of cracking or piling up in their wake, it melted and buckled. Their course was less orderly than he would have liked because of sudden bubbles and rifts in the ice, but there had to be stone down there, s _ome_ place. After all, this was home. Tracy Island, long after the Tracys had ceased to be more than a faint, ghostly memory.

John came forward after a bit. That was a relief, because he had the most sim time of any of them and could theoretically fly anyone's Bird or equipment. Had to inch his way over, hanging onto the bulkhead and safety gear, because of the Mole's howling vibration and slant.

 _Use-help-you?_ He signed.

Scott nodded, taking one hand off the controls to fingerspell: _T-R-A-C-K-I-N-G._

The astronaut signed _Yes_ and pulled down the cramped little cockpit's lone jump seat, over by a small comm panel. Sat himself down, strapped in and got right to work zeroing in on Alan's weak signal. Not much talk over all that noise, but sometimes they'd tap and sign advice or a question. Once a joke, which made more sense in gesture than words.

After about twenty-five minutes of careful and slippery chewing, the drill finally bit into rock. The noise and vibration changed pitch once again, as Scott cut off the heater and increased RPMs. Gave his brother a quick thumbs up, when John sent over the Island's schematics, mapped onto possible seismic and ice-pressure changes.

Able to move faster, drill harder, now, it took only ten minutes to break into one of the labs, changing angles to cut underneath and then surge through the floor from below. Like a broaching whale, they cracked through concrete and tile till the drill spun free in nothing but musty, debris-laden air. (Best not to mention how many times they'd _all_ screwed up in sim, dropping the Mole completely into a cavern on top of trapped "victims", with no way back to her borehole, above.)

Anyhow, it was with genuine relief that Scott Tracy shut off that nuclear engine, giving his ears a blessed respite from thundering noise. Didn't talk, at first, and neither did anyone else except Max, who had sustained vibration damage to some of his chips and connections. Brains was already at him with a soldering gun, though.

Scott unstrapped and then levered himself out of the driver's seat. Their recruit, Piper, looked as wide-eyed as a rescued kid; as Brandon had been, that time in the Alps. Scott clasped her shoulder briefly, in passing. Wondered how long it had been since he'd found his own job that amazing.

 _Doctor-gear-get,_ he signed to John, who nodded once, and headed aft to the storage compartment. No telling who might need help, or how badly. Those cryo-support tubes would keep you alive, but they tended to fail by degrees; leaving flickers of consciousness trapped inside of a half-rotten shell.

Signaling Lee that they'd made it, Scott reached up to open the hatch. As always, braced for the worst, but hoping like h*ll for the best.


	36. Chapter 36

Hi, you guys. =) I thank you so much for reading. Tikatu and Bow Echo, you raise some good points, which I've got five days to think about.

 **36**

 _Much earlier, during a timeline looped and in flux-_

The Mechanic stood braced and attached to his dais, feeling Ship flex and grow all around him. Even minerals dissolved in seawater were meat and drink to the living, half-aware vessel. As for her master… that Lord of Machines was wary. Disturbed. Two part-vermin children had entered his life, and now Beech. More society than he'd had to put up with since leaving the Stronghold in Edinburgh. This was not comfortable. To borrow a Typical catch-phrase, Kane "did not play well with others".

Yet, here they were; Ilya cleaning his weapon by the main gun, like one placed in charge of First Artefacts; Katrin coopting detergent to blow bubbles through one tiny fist, then using her mind to alter their path; Beech avoiding his notice… or trying to. The Mechanic had full, three-hundred-sixty-degree situational awareness. He could not be ambushed… so long as he remained online and paid strict attention.

Could have swatted all three of those troublesome pests like the insects they were. Fried them like moths at a microwave tower. Ordered his drones to rip them to shreds. These pictures were momentarily quite satisfying, but… he did not act on the impulse. Back on the Island, that lot had twice leapt to assist him. Also, he'd accepted Beech's request for protection. That somehow made them all _his._ Made him Central, like the Mother-of-Cyborgs.

Kane shook his head, ignoring Ilya's humming and the chain of rainbow soap-bubbles dancing around Ship's control dais. Turned his back on the chaos-adept, who'd left his rucksack behind on the Island. Tuned in to Ship, instead; receiving torrents of data through the cables that linked him to vessel and swarm. Looked out through her viewport at greenish ocean and ribbons of wavering light.

The seafloor below them had started to slope gently upward. They were approaching the site of his future Stronghold at Pancake Rocks, New Zealand. Vivid corals dotted the uneven sea-bottom, flashing with fish like swooping tropical birds. Trash, as well; some of it metallic enough to be useful. He dispatched a team of collection-drones with a single, sharp gesture, then said, not _precisely_ speaking to Beech,

"There is little accommodation, as yet. It is necessary to camp, while Ship purges her systems, grows and repairs."

None of that bothered the kids, both of whom looked up and smiled. They seemed to enjoy frisking outside in the sunshine and spray, for all that conditions like those could lead to corrosion. The pale-haired chaos-adept shot him a swift, sidelong glance.

"I know how to rough it, Kane," he replied. "We leave home at eleven to see the world and come back… or not. I've slept in my share of doorways, learning to wrestle with entropy."

The massive cyborg snorted derisively, simply not getting it.

"There are no doors, here… and your kind makes no sense. Why crouch in the shadow of vermin, making their females big with your offspring? Take what you want, destroy all the rest. Simple."

Beech stifled what looked like a sardonic grin and eyebrow-quirk, musing,

"Hmm… that enlightened philosophy couldn't be why you're back on the GDF's Public Enemy List, could it?"

In that moment, Cody Beech came about as close to death as he ever had. Fortunately, the Mechanic did have a rudimentary sense of humour (of the crotch-kick and sudden explosion variety, mostly). Rather than breaking the slender young man in half, Kane simply shrugged, grunting,

"Don't give a sh*t what they think of my actions. Who asks cattle their feelings?"

As they were nearly to shore, now, with powerful riptides hauling and slamming at Ship, he ordered,

"Make ready to surface. There is food for your meat parts, a portable recharge station and a few shallow caves with water in filtered barrels. Someday, much more."

The adopted chaos-mage bowed slightly, smiling like Katrin and Ilya.

"My lord, you have opened your home to me, and I'm grateful." Hadn't said that to Jeff Tracy, back on the Island, as the man knew almost nothing of old ways and doings.

The muscular technomancer hesitated. Olive-skinned, dark-haired and tattooed, with a partly-shaved head and masked face, he was still mostly flesh; riddled and strengthened by circuits. Had both amber eyes, yet, and most of his born-with-them body parts. Was still, therefore, young and able to change.

"The Accord makes us brothers," Kane responded grudgingly. "What I have, I will share. My shelter is yours."

Not many words, but old ones and meaningful. He had created his own family, and Beech backed that up.

By this time, Ship had reached harbour; breaking through wild, rolling surf to disgorge her flesh-and-blood ride-alongs. It was high noon, with a brilliant sun overhead, white-capped water and flocks of noisy, clattering birds. Wind from a range of forested hills carried rumour of beasts, distant cities and greenery. Nothing unusual.

The Mechanic jetpacked out of his vessel and into the air, leaving a droning mech-swarm to loft Beech and the laughing kids in his wake. Great towers of angular, striated grey rock stabbed at the skies all around him, looking much like a petrified city; home to birds, nesting reptiles and one errant cyborg.

All seemed well, and yet… Kane delayed touching down. Wasn't certain quite _why…_ until he realized that some of his senses were deadened; repressed by the will of another. To know was to act, and so the Mechanic went higher, bidding his drones not to land. Out at sea, Ship ceased her rolling and broaching to dart for her master's wave-rippled shadow; peering upward with multiple eyes, weapons at ready.

Who…? He cycled rapidly through all of the basic frequencies, sifting the wind and scanning for energy traces. Picked up no mass shifts, but sensed a definite, active suppression field. One meant to blind and disorient.

Rage began building within him, who'd come here expecting peace. A chance to recharge and replenish. Mantis swooped down and hovered nearby, plasma blades sparking.

"Stay," the Mechanic rumbled. "I will go down, alone. There has been no attack." _Yet._

Like the jetpack was part of him, Kane adjusted its strength and direction, crossing over a roaring and spuming blowhole, to land hard on a towering pillar of stone.

"Show yourself," he challenged, projecting dark fear and boosting his voice. "I have claimed this place for my own, and I will defend it."

Nesting seabirds and pterosaurs hunkered closely over their downy, wind-scoured young, as if sensing disaster. Kane armed his weapons and target-lock scanner, but…

 _***blink***distortion***static***_

…the Mother-of-Cyborgs was there all at once, descending to land directly before him, her metal-shod feet grinding on spray-dampened rock. With her rode a Kyrano. A female. Not the Tracys' tame psion. Another one.

As the suppression field ebbed, the Mechanic sensed many tens of his sisters somewhere nearby, all of them heavily armed. Like his drones, they hung back for the moment, waiting for orders.

"Evan," demanded the Kane, her voice an amplified, synthesized hum. "You will return with me, now. Your discordant actions will cease."

The cyborg gazed stonily past her, not meeting the Central One's hard, partly mechanical stare. From sheer animosity, he didn't look at that psion, either.

"I do not hear you, Madame," he said, defusing his weapons. "There is noise, but no words."

Her energy-level surged. He sensed a target-lock, and reflexively bent it around to those hidden and waiting sisters.

"You will come home or fight me, Evan," she told him, half of her body shining mirror-bright in the glare of a tropical sun. "I am old. I am ready to hand on position or win it, once more."

Great waves smashed and pounded at uncaring stone. Wind gusted and shoved, making a plume of her smoky-dark hair and long fiber-optics, just now turning bright red.

"I do not hear you," he growled insistently, feeling his muscles bunch, but fighting to keep himself still. Powerpacks flooded his body with charge, but Kane did not move an inch. Would not meet her gaze, either.

When she altered position, maybe to place a cold metal hand on his arm, or attack, he launched himself violently upward, scorching the rock. Gail Kane, his mother, started to follow. Anything might have happened, then, for the Kyrano thrust at his mind with blistering force, attempting to separate conscious awareness and circuitry. Only, a GDF troop ship came hurtling down from above, disrupting that sensor-block; blaring alarms and commands.

 _"Attention, below: All unregistered, illegally augmented persons are to cease activity, at once. You are under arrest. Repeat, you are…_ _squark_ _…_ _screeeee_ _…_ _breeeep_ _!_

Their statement never concluded, because Beech had stepped in. The chaos-adept was dumped on top of a nearby stone pillar by a pair of laboring drones. Meanwhile, the dark-green GDF troop-ship (squarish and ugly and jammed full of Kanni and uniformed vermin) began listing to seaward. Its' force shields collapsed all at once, like they'd been cut right off at the mains. The slender young man stood quietly facing that ship and its occupants, hands at his sides, pale hair blowing around in the wind.

"I've left your microphones working so that you can hear what I say," he told the GDF bridge crew. "Also, a bit of impeller. Listen, because I'm not very patient with idiots. Turn around now and leave. Mark this place on your charts as a no-go zone, or deal with the worst I can do to you."

Kane glanced down at Beech, who stood there doing apparently nothing, yet turning a flood of black, icy chaos onto that ambushing troop ship. The wolf-eyed young man was still talking; voice raised to be heard over wind and ocean.

"That sudden hair-line crack in your engine… the aneurysm starting to swell in your brain… the out-of-control aircar about to crash into your home and family… the glitch that will alter your status from citizen to criminal exile… I am their master. Leave us, or learn what it means to cross an Adept."

In the meantime, Kane landed again. Facing an unwanted challenge from one of his own kind, the technomancer could not afford to strike at that troop-ship. Didn't have to. His army of drones shot over to join him; covering every available surface with shifting, buzzing and shimmering bodies. Ilya was plunked right down at his side, Katrin dropped into his arms, both of them ready to fight.

He got a sudden lip-brush and hug from the girl, while her brother began to methodically pick out and shoot the troop-ship's sensor arrays. The boy's targets popped like firecrackers, sending lines of flame through the hull.

Not far away, that female Kyrano reeled backward. Would have fallen right off of their perch, had the Mother-of-Cyborgs not braced her upright.

A thin film of sweat glistened on Beech's pale forehead and soft upper lip. Kane would have lent him some charge, but he was all meat and couldn't accept it. Did send power to Katrin, whose small face was screwed up in tense concentration, battling hard for the second time in one day.

Led by a pack of shape-changers, the GDF would have caught and collared him, Kane realized; would have waited until he was completely distracted fighting the Mother-of-Cyborgs and captured his ass. Hers, too, probably. Only, Beech had sprung their trap.

Said the chaos-adept, pale eyes narrow and fierce,

"Your guidance system has only one setting available. If you want to live, let it take you out here. If not… get ready to face the worst that could happen, everywhere, all at once, to all that you care for."

No contest. Having gotten a taste of his power… with crewmen dropping like stones all over the bridge… the GDF captain wanted no more. Struggling engines whining aloud, the vessel lifted away. A few bits fell off as it lumbered back to low orbit. Ship snapped at pieces that crashed down into the ocean, increasing her mass and her armament.

Next, an old-fashioned, pre-conflict shuttle de-cloaked, three-point-five klicks away. Adapted tech, of the sort preferred by the Kane and her numerous offspring. The Mother-of-Cyborgs was last to leave. Looking hard at her son, she said/ transmitted,

"You cannot avoid this forever, Evan. The time will come when we have no choice but to face each other. I would choose that time, not have it thrust on us."

But he still didn't look. Not at her, nor the hovering shuttle full of his waiting sisters.

"Empty wind does not move the mountain," he said to the air.

"No," she agreed, turning away and igniting her jetpack; one arm still supporting that half-conscious Kyrano. "It erodes and it scours, until there is nothing left but a shattered, bare hill."

…and with that, the Mother-of-Cyborgs withdrew, arcing unsteadily into the sky with her burden.

Kane watched them go. Once again, he'd been defended by others. By the family he'd somehow stumbled on. As the shuttle and troop-ship dwindled to sparkling dots, then winked out altogether, the Mechanic turned to face Beech. With one metal hand resting on Ilya's head, Katrin fast asleep with her arms 'round his neck, the cyborg said just,

"This is home."


	37. Chapter 37

Hello. Thank you, for reading and maybe reviewing the previous chapter. Honestly too nervous to check, for obvious reasons. Anyhow, one more.

 **37**

 _On a damaged and reeling GDF troop ship, rocketing back into orbit-_

The slanted bridge was a riot and chaos of blaring alarms and snapping electrical fires. Hull plates and engine parts were still peeling away, as bolts failed and welds came rending apart in midair. Half of the crew were unconscious or stricken with some sort of metamorphic… spasming; howling and writhing from one shape to the next. Like fast-changing vid-channels, they shifted from their own scrawny forms to lumpy sections of decking, or the shapes of missing crewmen and the captain, himself. Bad enough, but on top of all that the computer system had suffered a near-total meltdown, permitting no other course but emergency launch

Captain Clarke was a veteran of the Space Corps; an academy grad who'd been brought up on heroic tales of Colonel Jeff Tracy. He'd been dispatched to New Zealand to find and subdue the dreaded Mechanic, because he was the finest officer in the Southern Cross Fleet. Given a target, Clarke had gone in with a trusted crew and a solid plan, only to have it all unravel, seconds from first engagement.

To say that things had gone wrong in a hurry, would have been utterly laughable. What should have been a surgical strike; a simple "smash and grab", had devolved into a violent confrontation with dozens of unlicensed 'specials'. Clarke had been prepared for one murderous cyborg, not a whole Goddam army of shape-changers, mechanicals and chaos magicians.

Now, with his half-crewed ship spiraling violently upward, the captain focused on damage control. Wading right in there with Meeks, Barron and Ivanenko, he fought to manage the situation and contact HQ. Over shrieking alarms, braced on that tilted and bucking grey deck, the dark-haired officer shouted,

"Meeks, fire and engine repair! Barron, round up the Marines and get these… _things_ collared and down to the brig!" Kicked at a writhing, flickering Special as he said this. Then, turning to face his second mate, "Ivanenko, make contact with Colonel Ca… No. Belay that. Not sure she isn't one of these, too. Get me International Rescue and order local traffic the h*ll out of our way!"

Because the engines wouldn't shut down or reverse, and his stricken ship was blasting straight for one of Earth's busiest space lanes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Yokosuka, Japan, in a rain-hammered tent hospital, at nearly the same time-_

A package was delivered from Tracy Island to the relocated treatment bed of one Tycho Reeves. Inside the box, nested in many layers of sheltering bubble-wrap, lay a heavy, chromed and beeping neural stabilizer.

The medical techs on staff had never seen such a device and hardly knew what to make of it. Fortunately, lifting the bulky head-gear out of its packaging caused a holographic instruction video to play. There on the folding steel lab table, a miniature Hiram Hackenbacker appeared, explaining the stabilizer's function and use. Wouldn't shut off or quit talking, either, until Doctor Shiro was summoned to place the Mark II stabilizer on Tycho Reeves' bandaged head.

They had to pull their patient out of a deep VR trance to do it, removing his implanted neural chip in the process. This dragged Reeves from his well-stocked internet workspace, back to that deaf-and-blind body. Startled and angered the genius, at first, until a faint flicker of greyish light gave him some hope of recovery.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Earth, 700 FN, far under glacier and rock-_

Colonel Jeff Tracy was the first man out of the Mole, of course. The huge digging machine had come to rest in that ripped-open chamber with its port-side hatch about seven feet in the air. Down below lay slabs of buckled, cracked flooring; unstable and shifting, still, as the treads fought for purchase. Jeff wore his helmet and space armour because the stale air was murky; swirling with dust and debris. Above him, the Mole's silvery drill lanced from its chassis like a tapering, spiral-edged tower, its tip skewering the rock overhead.

Chunks of stone and showers of muddy pebbles clattered down from its still-hot edges, striking what seemed to be upended lab gear and splintered furnishings; making a noise like tyres on gravel. Hard to see in the darkness and dust, so Jeff cut on his helmet lamp; turning this way and that for a better view. Could've launched a few recon drones, first… but Jeff Tracy was an explorer, not a d*mn technician. If he wanted to know, he got out there and _looked._

After taking a few moments to get his bearings, Jeff started moving. He climbed out onto the yellow hull, which was streaked with mud and grey lubricant. Deep gouges scored clear through the paint job and into the metal, beneath; where talons of much denser rock had bit, _hard._ Jeff shook his head, took a few stills for Brains, then continued examining his surroundings.

The helmet lamp and Heads-Up Display revealed what looked like one of their own labs, long abandoned, and now with major structural damage. Over a hundred feet long and fifteen feet high, crumpled steel door to the south.

"Dad?" came Scott's tense voice, over his helmet mic. "Situation report?"

The elder Tracy launched a tiny comm relay, linking his HUD-feed to the drill's main system and Thunderbird 7's. Turning a cautious three-sixty, he transmitted visual data.

"It's a mess," he replied, "but I can see what looks like a doorway, and some banks of, um… non-functional computer gear." (Hopefully not _too_ vital.) "You getting this, Lee?"

"Loud n' clear, Jeffery," came the astronaut's flat, drawling voice. "Looks like ya drilled through one a' Doc's labs. H*ll, he's got a hunnert of 'em. Won't hardly notice one less."

"I b- beg to, ah… to d- differ, Captain T- Taylor," Brains cut in, sounding cross. "If I am expected t- to achieve f- feats of engineering genius in th- this barren and ice-locked place, it must b- be with the equipage in laboratories such as, ah… as th- this one. Pray d- do not cause f- further damage!"

Jeff grimaced. He liked engineers and scientists as a whole and valued their contribution to IR… but had never been much of a bean-counter, himself. Owed his tremendous financial success to courage, popularity and a river-boat gambler's instinct for when to bluff, bet or fold.

"We'll do our best, Brains," he promised. Then, speaking more generally, "Come on out, a few at a time, bringing hover boards and jetpacks. Flooring's unstable. I'll find a way through to the door. Lee, keep that tractor warm, or those clamps will crack in half as soon as we try to re-engage." It was that cold, out there.

"Way ahead o' ya, Jeffery," responded his old friend and drinking buddy. "I've set up a localised energy field ta keep 'er from freezin' solid. Most likely take an ass-load o' charge from th' batteries, though. Might wanna pick up th' pace."

Inside his helmet, Jeff nodded.

"Understood. Stay alert, out there, and listen for signs of life. This may not be the only outpost on Earth." Then, "Alan, I don't know if you can hear me any better, now, Son, but we're here. I'm cutting the beacon on."

All it took was a tap to his suit's wrist-mounted transponder. A new window flared in his Heads-Up Display, just below suit-status. Any IR equipment in the area, including Al's space armour, ought to pick up and respond to the signal, which was proprietary. The GDF had long since reserved FM 120 for International Rescue, alone. Only now, not just the Birds, but their pilots' suits carried a high-gain transponder, which could be triggered remotely.

Almost losing Scott had taught them how much tracking mattered. Naturally, rock and ice interfered with the signal, but now that they'd gotten inside and launched a comm relay…

As Scott, John and Piper came up to join him, Colonel Tracy made room on the ticking and settling hull, all the while watching his HUD for pings. Got, surprisingly, not just Alan and Caleb (about 127 yards away and closing) but two… make that three…? No. Two definites, one barely-flickering other. These last did not move. Merely echoed his signal.

"There's something else down here," he told the boys and Piper, adding, "Maybe the Birds," on a sudden, strong hunch.


	38. Chapter 38

Thanks, Creative Girl, Thunderbird Shadow, Tikatu and Bow Echo. =) Just when I think I've found a place to cut off, things heat up, again. Stories, y'know?

 **38**

 _Tracy Island, on a sparkling mid-afternoon-_

Sally Tracy was just setting down to coffee and long-ignored emails, at a battered old desk by the ring. The sky and ocean outside were as pure and depthless a blue as she'd ever seen or heard tell of; framed in giant flowering trees and reddish-black boulders of lava. Jungle birds trilled, screeched and cawed. Animals scurried and bounced through the foliage, some of them furry, some saurian. 'Bitsy' had been turned out there to feed, as well; seeming perfectly content nipping flowers and vines on the mountainside, but never straying too far. Sort of herd critters, dinosaurs.

So much for environment. The outside was perfect, but moods a mite unsettled, and twelve-hours' rest a thing of the past.

Thunderbird 2 was back in her hangar, again, having returned from a mission to Spain just twelve minutes prior. Lots going on down there, but nothing the mechs and a passel of Mini-Maxes couldn't keep up with.

Sal glanced over at Virgil, asleep on the couch with one arm draped over his face, the other trailing the polished wood floor. He'd gone from standing watch down in sickbay to talking Janice and Josh through a harrowing mine-fire rescue. Now her tall, black-haired grandson was passed out cold on the first soft, level surface he'd come to. Sally had to check twice, just to make sure that the boy was still breathing, so still did he lay.

Ever since what had nearly happened to Scott, John Matthew, Teddy and Alan… the awful sickness that come so close to killing 'em all… she had to make _sure._ Had to keep touching her boys and Tanusha, seeing for certain that they was still safe.

Never before an anxious person, Sally Tracy had started to worry; dreading the mission that one or all of them never came back from. Tried not to let it show on the outside, though. Tried really hard not to feed them her nightmares. Just walked through the house, night after night; checking bedrooms and touching faces, whispering prayers and then moving on.

Emails gathered unread on her comm screen as Sally's fists clenched and she gazed out the window at nothing but fear. Worst of all, maybe… worse by a pile… there were kids, now, too; her great-grand-baby Charlie, the new young 'un, Fermat and them eager recruits. All here, all in danger. How could she…

 _*Ping*_

"Attention, International Rescue! This is Lieutenant Ivanenko of YF-37, declaring emergency. Repeat, we are declaring emergency, in need of immediate aid. YF-37 is out of control and launching directly into the Southern Hemisphere shipping channel!"

Sally Tracy swept her untouched coffee aside, sloshing half of it onto that stained, beat-up desk. Not far away, Virgil jerked bolt upright; on his feet before quite waking up.

"What…? Who…?" he blurted, rubbing a sleeve-creased face with both hands.

"GDF troop ship in danger," Sal clarified, reading coordinates off of its glowing red transponder signal. "Looks like a turn an' burn f'r Thunderbird 2, Teddy."

All trace of exhaustion vanished from the pilot's handsome, unshaven face and dark eyes. Loping over to the desk, he gazed at her screen for an instant, then shook his head.

"I don't think so, Grandma," he told her, heavy brows lowering. "2 won't get there in time, and this one looks complicated. Prep Thunderbird 1 and have a Mini-Max meet me down in the hangar bay. Get Gordon moving, too. He can join Ming and Kelly in Thunderbird 3. We may end up needing the space option."

Leaning down, he gently kissed Sally's forehead, adding,

"Love you, Grandma. Tell 'em we're on our way, and take care of Emma. She might be confused when she wakes up without me."

Sally Tracy took a very deep breath, fighting the urge to say: _No, Teddy. Let the GDF solve their own dang problems._ Only, folks was in danger. Young men and women who put on a uniform, every day o' their lives. Whose people wanted 'em back, just like she did with hers. So, Sal gave her middle grandson a fiercely tight hug and then broke away, clearing her throat to say,

"Get on y'r way, Boy. Mind y'r home in time f'r supper. I'm fixin' gingerbread meatloaf, an' it ain't as good, cold."

"Can't pass up a hot meal," joked Virgil. Turning, he sprinted across the room to Scott's 'ready station', stood on the turntable and then pulled down hard on a pair of wall-mounted lamps. Immediately, a humming noise and faint, vibrating scan swept through him, as a circular section of floor began pivoting. In a matter of seconds, Virgil Tracy was swept right out of the living room and into Thunderbird 1's delivery shaft. Waiting across that small, brightly-lit space was an open lift car, tricked out with a suddenly much-larger uniform. Still trimmed in silver, but big enough for a former star full-back like Virgil Tracy.

He strode forward onto the platform and then turned around, humming his latest composition under his breath. Once Virgil was braced, feet solidly planted apart, arms at his sides, the platform dropped like a rock. Robot valets sprang into action at once, suiting him up for the mission. Plucking, grabbing and darting, they removed his cammo tee shirt, work-boots and jeans, then kitted him out for Thunderbird 1. (Which he'd flown once or twice in real life, plus five or six times in sim. Never mind how many crashes.)

Raced down to hangar level in near free-fall, lines of fluorescent light marking each floor as Virgil sped past. Slowed at last near the bottom, when the lift car reached the end of its ride. Air pressure changed suddenly, because the hangar was _huge_ and filled with subtle vibration, plus plenty of unsubtle noise.

Once the lift car stopped, Virgil moved forward onto Scott's boarding gantry. Thunderbird 1 stood waiting at her berth across from him, already charged up and rumbling; mechs and repair-bots scurrying to remove those last few sensors and lines.

As soon as Virgil trod on a circular pressure pad, the gantry began to extend; smoothly crossing the deep, windy gap between delivery system and cockpit. It was a hundred-yard drop onto concrete and steel, if he fell, so Virgil didn't look down. Next, a cheerfully beeping Mini-Max joined him, swooping dizzy circles around the big pilot.

"Hey, Buddy," said Virgil, glad of the company. "Ready to rock?"

Meanwhile, the Bird's canopy opened in two parts, and her pilot's seat unfolded to meet the oncoming gantry. Virgil half-turned in response, putting one hand on the armrest before carefully lowering himself into that seat. Scott could do it all without looking, trusting that his chair would be there to catch his uber-confident butt. Virgil didn't have as much faith or experience. Backward, head-first on a crazy-fast death coaster? Sure, why not. Sit right down over a hollow, windy abyss? Not so much.

Anyhow, the seat adjusted itself to his more…erm… generous proportions, locking Virgil down and emitting a virtual situation screen at eye-level. Retracted swiftly into the big silver rocket-plane, then, while the canopy shut like two halves of a clam shell, only just not crushing Max. The Bird's onboard system chirped, scanning her substitute pilot repeatedly.

"Yeah, I know," Virgil apologized, pulling up comms and control, "but he's not around, and Jan's over in Thunderbird 3, so I'm it. Feed me the mission specs, link up with Max, here, and we'll figure it out as we go along." (Jazz riffs, rather than classical music.)

Must've reassured the computer, because Thunderbird 1 stopped scanning and unlocked control. Her trolley engaged, moving the Bird out and down along a heavy neutronium trackway. About a quarter of a mile and two minutes later, she stood in her launch silo, under that smoothly retracting pool. The process was fully automated, leaving her pilot free to read up on the danger zone and make any last-minute changes. Not much to go on this time, though. Wasn't sure what had happened, or why the troop-ship crew couldn't cut off their own engines. Find out soon enough, Virgil supposed.

Fluorescent lighting was drowned out by golden tropical sunshine as the swimming pool vanished into its slot, overhead. The countdown began, starting at _5_. Then, with a roar that shook hangar and mountainside, Thunderbird 1's engines ignited. She blasted out of her silo on a pillar of bright orange flame, crushing Mini-Max onto the pilot's broad chest. Vibration and power were pretty intense… but nothing like Thunderbird 2.

Tracy Island dropped away like a shiny green stone in a well, soon little more than a speck in all of that glittering blue. Virgil gripped the controls and then triggered 'level flight'. Remembered to say: "Thunderbird 1 is go!" as he brought her around.

"F-A-B, Thunderbird 1," his grandmother responded. "Gordon n' them are right behind ya. Looks like y'll hafta find some way o' stoppin' that troop ship before she hits space. Hull intregrity's just about shot. Once hard vacuum kicks in, she'll come apart like a navy-bean sandwich." (For the record, one of his least favourite meals.)

Virgil nodded, calling up 1's bag of aerial rescue tricks to explore his options. Magnetic grapple and tow line… force-shield projector… jetpack pilot transfer… old-fashioned muscle and brains. Whatever he chose, Virgil was going to have to act quickly, because YF-37 was shedding bits in every direction (like Charlie, heading for the pool).

"Island Base, from Thunderbird t… um, 1. From Thunderbird 1. Grandma, we need to get that shipping lane clear."

He had the green, sparking troop ship in sight, by now, having just about red-lined the rocket-plane's howling main engine.

"I'm on it, Thunderbird 1," she called back, her hologram bright blue and puckered with worry. "Only, traffic's jammed up pretty fierce, on account o' that mess with the tower, back in Japan. They got nowhere ta get, 'cept in each other's way."

Right. So, his only option was to somehow stop an out of control, derelict ship, before she caromed up into space. One pass, one shot, one try, before he exceeded Thunderbird 1's maximum altitude, and they had to fall back on 3.

"Max," he grunted, "we could use one double-strength John Tracy miracle, right about now."

…only, his red-haired brother was off in the future, trying to help save the Earth without harming her past. As the juddering troop ship grew nearer, Mini-Max beeped and chirped, projecting a screen full of possible strategies; two of them highlighted yellow and blinking. Virgil nodded.

"Here goes nothing," he murmured, hitting afterburner.


	39. Chapter 39

Hi, there. =) Thank you for reading. Any writer hopes to connect and share what he or she loves with a few other people.

 **39**

 _Thunderbird 1, blasting very much higher than normal-_

For safety's sake, he'd cut on his force shield. A good call, as his GDF quarry was shedding great chunks of hull plating all over the afternoon sky. Edged in crumbling rust and a hailstorm of shorn, pelting rivets, the massive green rectangles tumbled past Virgil like bloodthirsty throwing-stars. Not the engines, though. Those continued to operate at full, volcanic force, along with the troop ship's screaming impellers.

Square and ungainly, with her hull a tattered ruin, her giant engines twin, blue-white suns, the hijacked vessel was racing away from the Earth. Virgil shifted Thunderbird 1's controls, getting the hang of the Bird's greater sensitivity and barely-familiar cockpit. Had, maybe, ten-thousand more feet before he was too high for the rocket-plane's scramjet to function. Thunderbird 3 was on her way, but those people needed help, right the h*ll _now._

"YF-37," he called out, on IR's special comm frequency. "This is Virgil Tracy in Thunderbird… uh, one. Thunderbird 1. Suggest you launch escape pods and shuttles. Get your people to safety and leave us to deal with the hardware." Brains' nanites could dissolve the thing in midair, if nothing else. Only,

"Negative, Thunderbird 1," replied a staticky, harassed-sounding male voice. No hologram. "Captain Clarke, speaking. We've lost power to the main doors and magnetic launch system. There's no way to abandon ship."

 _Crap._ Okay, plan B-and-a-half.

"Roger that, 37. Stand by for deployment of force-shield. I'll try to keep you from rising out of the atmosphere, without shaking your vessel apart."

"Affirmative, Thunderbird 1… and thank you."

Thing was, that GDF ship was too far gone to grapple magnetically. Too prone to just come to bits in midair. Like he'd figured, this one was going to be complicated.

"Max, we need to get you aboard, find out what's wrong with those engines, and get 'em shut down," he told his swooping and darting companion. John could have worked some hacker-magic from clear out in orbit, but Virgil Tracy's skill set was totally different. He was going to have to do what the Tracys had always done best: improvise.

"Whatever you're planning had better be quick, Thunderbird 1," snapped the troop ship's captain. "Engine room's sealed. She won't answer the helm, _or_ shut off, and we won't survive exposure to vacuum, in this condition." Not enough hull integrity left to withstand a light breeze, actually.

"We're on it, Captain. Never met a lost cause we couldn't haul out of the soup. Gather your crew in the safest region you've got and sit tight."

Virgil heard the captain shift position and bark orders, but he didn't much listen. Too busy. Dodging a blizzard of jagged debris, the pilot brought Thunderbird 1 screaming up and across, swooping over that crumbling GDF troop ship. Got thrown around in his seat-straps, some, because he tended to overcorrect; being accustomed to flying a Bird with much greater power and mass.

Throttling forward, Virgil Tracy maneuvered into position, one eye on status, one on that rocketing hulk. Next toggled the forcefield control, shifting the pale-blue bubble from Thunderbird 1 to YF-37. He intended slowing her down, but had to be really careful, because too much resistance would burn out those redlined nuclear engines, causing catastrophic meltdown and maybe explosion. In any case, bad.

This close, the struggling troop ship looked like a scavenged corpse; like a tattered and moldering derelict. Not just falling apart, she was rusting in front of his eyes. Virgil could see clear through the riddled hull to open cabins and gaping passages. Pretty soon, there'd be nothing left to save.

By this time, Mini-Max was in place to be launched through the rocket-plane's magnetic cannon. Like all the rest of his selves, the small robot carried a cargo of self-replicating, programmable nanites. 24-hour service and onsite repair. All Virgil had to do was get him inside.

"Ready, Max?" he asked, pulling up Thunderbird 1's virtual targeting screen and haptic-glove trigger system. A rapid series of Morse code trills and beeps replied affirmatively, as Mini-Max restructured himself, forming a streamlined bullet shape.

"Okay. On three. Fly safe, Buddy. One… two… _three."_

Virgil's right forefinger curled convulsively, sending a 'fire' signal through the glove's sensors and out to the main cannon. With a loud, ringing _WHOOSH_ , Max was launched, arcing down from above to pierce the forcefield and then rocket straight into that sabotaged ship.

 _Breep…Breep…Breep_ _!_

The Bird's altitude warning howled to life; nearly drowning out thundering engine- and wind-roar. Too high. Soon, his straining jet would run out of air and be strangled. Hurriedly, Virgil cut off the klaxon. Then, he heard,

"Thunderbird 1, from Thunderbird 3. Hey, Bro. Want some company?"

It was Gordon, spearing up through those faint, lacy clouds in a long, crimson rocket. His grinning hologram winked into view at the pilot's right side, near a rotating image of YF-37.

"Well," Virgil mused. "Maybe. I mean… if you don't have anything better to do."

"As it happens, my social calendar is clear," joked the aquanaut, looking peculiar in Alan's red sash and spacesuit. "What's going on?"

All at once, like a switch had been flipped, they were perfectly serious.

"I'm running out of room to operate, here, Kiddo. Got a force-shield over the target, and Max aboard, hopefully cutting those engines. Once they're turned off, though…"

"She's gonna drop like a rock, and she's in no condition to land. Holy crap, Bro… what _happened?"_

Virgil shook his head, sending un-gelled black hair flopping into his handsome face.

"Not sure," he admitted, as Thunderbird 3 sliced up to join him, rolling an exuberant Alan-style greeting in the process. "Looks like sabotage, not breakdown, but I don't know who did it, or how… and the captain's too busy to talk."

"Meh," replied Gordon, flexing broad, swimmer's shoulders. Beside and behind him, Virgil glimpsed Janice and Josh. "Rescue first, debrief later. My money's on one of the usual suspects. Most likely the Hood or the Chaos Crew. Looks like their style."

Thunderbird 3 now added her own mighty forcefield to Virgil's, wrapping that terribly wounded troop ship in a cocoon of glimmering energy, as they worked to slow her ascent. Up on the status screen, Virgil followed Max's blinking red dot; watching as the determined small robot dashed through YF-37, seeking a place to jack in and take charge.

The Pacific was now a hazy, blue-white expanse far below them, edged in dull tan continent and flecked with small islands. Overhead, a thinning atmosphere was beginning to shimmer with intense, unfiltered sunlight. Not good.

"Anything we could accomplish better on board?" asked his brother, scowling at instruments he'd last handled out at the Ranch, in simulation. "We've got the hoverboards and a couple of jetpacks, in here."

Virgil considered.

"Maybe, if Max can't do it alone. I sent the crew to their crash couches, so there's…"

"I'm still at my post on the bridge," cut in Captain Clarke, sounding tense. _"My_ vessel, _my_ responsibility. I'm not safe until she is."

Virgil and Gordon both nodded, getting it.

"Yes, Sir," said the pilot. "Understood. I've got a probe aboard, attempting to access your system. If we can restore control without cutting your engines, we'll guide you down to Adelaide Field, in Australia. If not, we'll do our best to slow your descent and get those escape pods operational."

He heard Clarke's grunted assent. Then,

"There's more, Gentlemen. My ship was attacked by the Mechanic and a team of his henchmen. We've been invaded by shape-changers. Most of them are collared, now, and locked in the brig under stasis… but some might have hidden themselves. Not sure when they got in, or what's happened to the crew they replaced, but I'm going to need scanners and a security detail, at Adelaide."

Virgil exchanged startled glances with Gordon's pale hologram.

"Whoa…" breathed the aquanaut, running a gloved hand through his sandy-blond hair. "The Mechanic… _and_ shape-changers? Those guys are frickin' _everywhere."_

…and who knew how high the problem went? Was Casey still herself, even? Or Chancellor Shaw? Kane had been their ally. He'd proven his worth many times; helping to save the Earth, then defending Tracy Island from infiltration and takeover. They owed him a real and serious debt, only now he'd gone off and attacked the GDF, once again. Only, had he? The massive cyborg didn't _destroy_ machines, he took over them. Made them part of his army of drones or his ship. This didn't feel like the Mechanic's M.O.

Virgil felt his gut clench, because more than all that, Kane was a friend. Somehow, over beer, battery packs and rescues, they'd bonded. The big pilot shook his head, unwilling to believe that things could go that wrong, that fast.

He got a sudden ping from Mini-max, then, diverting his unsettled thoughts. The robot had located an ungoverned data-port and was preparing to jack in and take over… or try to.

Aboard YF-37, flitting through a passage that shuddered, crackled and boomed, Max latched onto a bulkhead, then emitted a delicate access probe. This, he inserted through the data-port (marked: _comm access- unsecure_ ). Ought to have been able to seize control of the troop ship's systems, only… once unleashed… chaos rarely followed instructions. What could go wrong, no matter how far-fetched or unlikely, would.

Countermeasures designed to prevent hacking suddenly took on a vicious life and power of their own. Lashing out with virulent force, the computer's augmented defenses fried Mini-Max to a burnt-out and sparking shell. What was left of the little bot rattled across a tilted and rumbling deck, his red tracking-dot cutting out like a snuffed candle.

Gloved hands clenching hard on the flight controls, Virgil inhaled sharply. As John would have put it: _strike one._


	40. Chapter 40

Happy Mother's Day! =) I had set myself an intellectual exercise; to finish each scenario in the fewest number of possible moves. So, that didn't work out like I'd hoped... (shrugs) Oh, well. Maybe next time. Thanks for reading!

 **40**

 _Screaming upward through cold, thinning air-_

The altitude klaxon had cut back on again, loud and discordant as a brass band tuning up in a hurricane. There was no shutting it off this time, either, as Thunderbird 1 had just about scraped the far edge of her operating limit. The heroically struggling rocket-plane couldn't go any further… but her stubborn substitute pilot sure could.

Clapping a helmet over his head, then seizing his tool kit and jetpack, Virgil Tracy triggered: _cockpit open._ Yeah. That went well. Normally, the Bird's forcefield would have held off most of the turbulence. Only, that shield had been redeployed around YF-37.

On the bright side, the air had thinned to the point that he wasn't just hammered into the cockpit's rear firewall. Buffeted, yes. A sack of shattered bones and jellied organs, no. Instead, two sections of perma-glass canopy came apart like an unclenching fist, allowing the seat mechanism to extend. Humming and bouncing, it lowered him out of the Bird.

Shouting into his helmet mic, Virgil called,

"Gordon, I'm transferring over. Jan, remote-fly Thunderbird 1 to a safer altitude. Keep her forcefield on target as long as you can. Josh, grab a jetpack and helmet. You're with me."

Three fast, garbled responses: "Gotcha, Bro," "F-A-B, Virgil,"

And, "On my way, Sir!"

…interfered with each other inside of his helmet. Anyhow, they'd all said yes, and Virgil didn't have time to reply. Too busy not going splat; like a bug on an oversized windshield. The 'Scott-suit' was built for gliding flight. For getting from Thunderbird 1 to the danger zone in a hurry. Usually, though, it had more of an atmosphere to work with.

Taking a deep breath, the pilot launched himself out of his seat, probably scorching the fabric. Shot away from the cockpit, just as YF-37 came lumbering up from below and Janice Ming took over Thunderbird 1. No tether, no force shield; nothing but glide-suit wings and a scrawny, flat jetpack. Made for a pretty d*mn lively experience.

Virgil swooped lower; more or less like he'd done it in practice, heading for an ugly, out-of-control and fast-shredding GDF troop carrier. The pilot's heads-up display scanned and highlighted several possible entries; outlining a ragged hole over the bridge, two shattered gun-ports and the reverse-thruster intake valve. Which one?

Had to decide in a hurry, because YF-37 was heading his way like a hurtling baseball bat or a golf club. Virgil got himself oriented, using quick finger-to-palm taps to work his jetpack. Passed the shimmering forcefield about six feet down, causing his hair to stand up and every inch of his body to tingle.

Thunderbird 1 peeled off and banked away, flashing silver-bright in that raw, unfiltered sunshine. Meanwhile, Thunderbird 3 swept closer; ready to grab him, he guessed, if something went more-than-usually wrong.

Virgil ignored his hovering crimson nursemaid. Lined up with a jagged opening over the bridge and did his best to match speeds. Still felt like a gnat trying to dash through the holes in a flyswatter, with just one chance to _not_ spread his guts on the hull like a colourful roadmap.

(They'd covered this one in sim 28, so he wasn't exactly a virgin, but did gain a healthy pile of respect for Scott, even so.)

Did not close his eyes. Did, maybe, shout something heart-felt and pitchy. The runaway troop ship rose up so fast that it swallowed the world; that dark, ragged hole fanged with rusting metal and crisscrossed by snapping and sparking live wires. Virgil curled himself into a knot; head tucked; knees drawn up to his chest. Felt the air pressure change all at once. Made it inside with no time to celebrate, striking first the deck, then an onrushing bulkhead with all the force of a wrecking ball.

The glide suit had a built-in armour feature, able to go from cloth-like to bullet- and impact-proof. Still hurt like h*ll as he hit, rebounded, rolled and then skidded, grabbing wildly for handholds. At the last minute, remembered Scott's cable gun, but couldn't wrestle the d*mn thing out of its holster in time to do any good. Still rolling, Virgil cursed, prayed, cursed some more, then slid to a halt.

A brief search located everything pertinent, from toolkit to major body parts, so Virgil rolled over and switched on his comm.

"Thunderbird 3, from YF-37. Made it inside. It's…" the dark-haired pilot crouched on that shuddering deck, looking around. "It's pretty bad."

A shrieking abandon-ship klaxon warred with those thundering engines and shredding, over-stressed metal. He barely heard Gordon's response, over all of that noise.

"You okay, Virge?"

"Who, me?" he enquired, shifting his footing as more and more deck turned to rust. "Yeah. Banged up a little, is all. Got a plan, though. Be ready to guide her once the engines shut off, and warn shipping clear, above and below."

"Your will is my command, glorious leader. Josh is on his way over."

Virgil nodded, taking a closer look at his landing site. Comm centre, apparently, featuring plenty of cracked, offline data screens.

"Tell him to watch his step. Somebody hit the corrosion fast-forward button, and she's falling apart all around me." Not at all the Mechanic's M.O. Had the cyborg felt like destroying a GDF troop ship, he'd have sent his drones to tear the thing up.

Too busy to dwell on that, now, though. Max had made it inside, which meant that there were a few grams of nanites aboard. Once started up, they'd grab what was handy, and begin to self-replicate. All he had to do was transmit Brains' wakeup code. That, and find Clarke.

Outside, Virgil could see the sky turning black; studded with flickering streaks that weren't stars but freighters, reflecting the light of the sun.

"Captain Clarke?" Virgil called out, using the helmet mic, again. "I'm aboard, Sir. Once my teammate arrives, we'll make our way over."

The pilot waited expectantly. Got no answer but static and rapidly thinning wind noise. Tried again.

"Captain Clarke? Virgil Tracy, Sir. Where are you? What's your condition?"

No joy. Nothing at all from Clarke or his crew.

Worried, Virgil scowled, but stuck to the script. Besides "the mission comes first", Dad always said, "work the problem". Don't speculate, don't go off on a tangent. Do your d*mn job.

Right.

Virgil used his heads-up display to select and transmit the nanite alert-code, half listening for Josh Kelly's arrival. Figured the recruit would wait to come in till they'd slipped past the worst of that turbulence. In the meantime, step two was to get the ship's power and fuel disconnected.

No power, no thrust, right? Basic engineering, but he'd need Clarke's password to get in there and start pulling plugs.

They were almost out of the atmosphere, now, and a sudden wind had set up; the vessel's air, hissing away through dozens of widening breaches. Outside, those fast-moving bright streaks were visibly closer, adding a little more spice to the soup they were in.

A blinking green light on his HUD indicated that Max's nanites were active. First thing the pilot had them do was repair and awaken that small, gutsy robot.

"Rise 'n shine, Buddy," he murmured, watching the arcing red dot that was Josh Kelly, speeding away from Thunderbird 3. "Need your help."

…because he had a ship to divert and a crew to rescue, in maybe ten minutes' time. Ought to have got on his way and let Kelly catch up, but Clarke had said there were shape-changers present. Having seen them duplicate Penny, Sherbert and a young Japanese girl, Virgil was taking no chances. He had to play smart, safe and careful; keeping his teammate in sight at all times.

A hoverboard swept through the hole not ten seconds later, homing in on Virgil's transponder.

"Got eyes on Kelly," he called out to Gordon, who was busy shaping that forcefield into a slanted low ceiling; letting YF-37 continue to rise but slowing her down. Smart kid, Gordon.

"Copy that, Virgil," responded the swimmer. "Ned in Orbit Control says they're moving those freighters as fast as they can, but…"

"Everything's stacked up. I know," Virgil grunted. "Tell him thanks, and to do whatever he can. You fly interference, Kiddo. Get out there and push, if you have to."

"I'm on it," his brother replied.

Meanwhile, that hoverboard settled close to the slanted and vibrating deck, letting a large, green-suited figure step off. Inside his helmet, Josh Kelly looked tired, but ready. Just a regular, very brave guy, trying to follow some pretty big footprints.

Virgil smiled at him.

"Glad you could make it, Kelly," he said, extending a gloved hand to slap palms. His brothers would have joked back, but Josh was still sort of new, and stuffed to the gills with respect. (Especially after that business in Spain.)

"Yes, Sir," he said, clearing his throat. "I'm right here. Just tell me what to do."

"Stop calling me 'sir', for starters," said Virgil, crossing over to join the bald, dark-skinned young man. "Then, help me reach the bridge and find Captain Clarke. Want you to stay in sight at all times and watch out for imposters. Machinery's safe, if it actually functions. People, too, if they can hold their shape. Hang back and watch, before getting close. Got it?"

"Yes, S… Virgil. I get you."

There was a sealed, nonfunctional hatch about five yards away. Blast-door; locked down so tight it'd take a plasma torch and a couple of hours to cut through. No time for all that, so…

Indicating the hull breach, Virgil asked,

"Can your board carry two people?"

Josh lifted his eyebrows, then nodded.

"Sure can. She'll run out of charge faster, is all, but I brought a bunch of spare ion-packs, because you never can tell what'll come in handy."

"Good idea, Kelly. Good initiative. Gotta be able to think on the field, in real time; read the defense, adjust and respond."

Virgil was already moving, as the 'sky' above them went full, diamond-streaked black, while noises dropped to a whisper, and then fell silent. Only the deck's vibration, carried up through their magnetic boot soles, made any clamour at all.

"We're going outside," the pilot told Josh. "There's another way in, that cuts through most of this busted-ass ship."

To their once-again functioning robot, Virgil sent,

"Max, I'm gonna need you to find a maintenance access hatch for the forward thruster. Get it open manually but try not to do any damage."

If he couldn't find a way onto the bridge, he'd by God make one. Max beeped a cheerful, determined reply, transmitting a map of the thruster cooling system to Virgil. Sure enough, that network of tubes passed clear through YF-37, dumping exhaust from her steering rockets out through the main engines. _Score_.

Climbing up on the board behind Kelly, Virgil locked onto its gently bobbing surface with magnetic boots, then put a gloved hand on the other man's shoulder. Used his helmet lamp to project a hologram map of their route, saying,

"To the intake valve, yesterday."

Good thing he was hanging on and hadn't eaten since… um… couldn't remember. Anyhow, Virgil's stomach flipped right the h*ll over, when Josh kicked the board into gear. He spun them upside down and around through a widening network of cables and struts, out into wide-open space. Corkscrewed over the pocked and corroding hull. Rusty green alternating with deep velvet black, overhead. Now, those shorn bits weren't falling. They hovered instead, like a cloud of razor-edged mines.

"Virge? You alright, over there?" Asked Gordon, over the helmet comm. "Your heart rate's…"

"Fine. Peachy." Virgil grated, between tightly clenched teeth. He'd never been much of a spaceman. Pilot, sure. _This_ …? "Time of my life."

Turned out that Josh had learnt some hoverboard stunts from Alan, then made up a few of his own. They twisted, wove, skimmed low and darted across the hull like a dragonfly. More dancing than flying, with scarlet shipping-lane buoys so close, now, that Virgil could have reached out and snagged one.

But the intake valve lay directly ahead of them, looking almost too good, too safe, to be true.


	41. Chapter 41

Hi, there! =) Close to the end of the school year, and the start of vacation. Managed to get all of my paperwork done (nearly), so the coast is almost clear. ;) As ever, thank you so much for reading. I write to share stories, because I love these characters. Hope that they're fun for you, too.

 **41**

 _Black, hollow space, skimming the hull of a battered and hurtling GDF troop ship-_

By this time, Virgil could see Pac-Orbital's giant main docking ring, which looked like a circle of blinking red and green lights, overhead. It was tilted about thirty degrees to YF-37, streaked with the ion exhaust trails of a hundred queued-up freighters. He saw channel markers, too; indicating proper approach lanes with flashes of eye-searing light and high-pitched transponder pings. A red pop-up warning appeared in his helmet's heads-up display, then.

 **ATTENTION! YOU ARE APPROACHING RESTRICTED AIRSPACE! PLEASE REVERSE COURSE IMMEDIATELY!**

You know… in case they _weren't_ aware that this was a crowded commercial shipping zone, and that they ought to go play somewhere else. Thunderbird 3 hovered nearby, pouring her force shield over that runaway troop ship, trying to wrestle her down and aside.

Virgil's focus was elsewhere. Gecko gloves and magnetic boot-soles kept him locked onto Josh and the hoverboard, as they flitted and zipped over the hijacked vessel's disintegrating surface. He had to hold tight, as they darted past great shards of floating green metal and lashing live wires. Their goal lay just ahead; a seemingly wide-open steering jet intake vent, hard by the bridge. Bits of decaying hull were still working loose as Josh brought them closer; steering his board with expert weight shifts and leans.

For some reason… suspicious nature, maybe… Virgil fumbled Scott's magnetic grapple launcher out of its holster, arming the thing with a few coded taps. Better safe than defenceless, right? And now, they were just about there.

The intake vent was about the size of a modest two-car garage and slanted slightly to port. Looked oddly smooth and undecayed, compared to the rest of the vessel. That triggered all sorts of internal alarms, but at this point, Virgil and Josh were committed. They _had_ to get into that ship.

Together, men and hoverboard swept over a slight bulge in the hull, flaring around to dash in through the dark, rectangular opening. For just an instant, Virgil's helmet lamp poured golden light over a long, narrow shaft, reinforced with neutronium shielding and burnt-out forcefield projectors. According to his map, the maintenance hatch was twelve yards away on a starboard, ship-facing bulkhead. Right. Warily, the two rescuers swooped inside.

One second passed… two… then, all at once, the vent's baffles snapped shut; crushing the rear third of their board, including its thruster. A bright, soundless explosion lit up the throat of that vent, hurling men and machine into a crumpled deflection screen. Once again, Virgil's suit hardened on contact. Josh's did, too; briefly converting the startled recruit to a tumbling statue.

Something like a maintenance bot drifted closer, possibly drawn by unauthorized entry. Lashing razor sharp, pincer-tipped limbs, the machine drew nearer, clearly intending to block their intrusion. Only, Virgil wasn't having any. Thinking quickly, he aimed past Josh Kelly, firing the cable gun just under the other man's arm.

Electromagnetic repulsion sent a powerful grapple blasting out of its housing and across the whirling vent, where it struck that oncoming bot and locked on. Leaving Josh to handle their careening flight, Virgil twisted around, swinging his end of the steel-alloy cable like a rope lasso. The rogue maintenance bot was hauled off course to smash on the deck, noiselessly snapping three limbs. It bounced off the metal surface using jets to reorient, still full of fight. No problem. Thumbing a switch on the cable gun's grip, Virgil sent a pulse of horrendously powerful force through the line that connected them.

Their attacker stiffened and flailed for a moment. Then the bot… suddenly wasn't. All of a sudden, what had looked like a vicious machine softened, slumped and gained mass, draining energy out of its surroundings as it took on the shape of a space-armoured man. The guy tumbled end over end, cartwheeling away down the shaft. Just unconscious, Virgil hoped.

"Virgil! Answer me, dammit!"

Gordon had been hollering questions all along, but the pilot hadn't been paying attention. Now, forcing himself to sound calm, Virgil panted,

"Stand down, Fish-stick… we've had a situation… but we're fine… promise."

"What happened?!"

The aquanaut's voice was tense and concerned. Heads-up telemetry showed 3's massive grappling arms already moving; ready to tear YF-37 in half like wet cardboard, if necessary.

Knowing that Gordon could pick up his heartrate and breathing, Virgil got himself under control. Beside him, Josh grunted something, then triggered his own and Virgil's magnetic boot-sole release. Next kicked what was left of their hoverboard away down the vent shaft.

Both young men had maneuvering jetpacks. Not very powerful, but enough to control their flight in this eerie and dangerous place. On the bright side, without oxygen, that runaway corrosion had finally ceased.

"Virgil, _what's going on?_ Do you need help?"

"Uh… vent hatch slammed shut on our ride. Triggered a light show, is all. We're fine. Got an unconscious prisoner to deal with, though. Call Global-1, Gordon. See if they can send in a couple of armed patrol ships."

"Prisoner? One of the shape-changers?" his brother enquired, holograph malformed and staticky from all of that billowing ion exhaust.

"You got it in one," Virgil congratulated him, adding, "there may be more, between here and the bridge."

Max, too, had been chirping and calling.

"We're fine, Buddy. No worries. How're you coming with that hatch?"

A super-fast Morse code response had to be interpreted by his helmet comm. Maintenance hatch would be unlocked and open in thirty seconds, it looked like.

"Good. Switch off internal defenses, if you can. Get those nanites into the system and have 'em start cutting wires. Understood?"

A swift affirmative _breep_ filled Virgil's helmet, as Mini-Max went hurriedly back to work. Armed, hostile resistance changed everything. Now, he, Josh and Max weren't just fighting to save crew and equipment. They were fighting to stay alive.

Call that one strike two.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, the infirmary; at about the same time-_

Tanusha Kyrano Tracy bolted awake in a sudden, wild spasm of sheets and IV tubes. Tumbled right off of her bed, ripping needles out of her flesh and setting off a cascade of alarms. Alerted everyone else in the room… for the brief instant it took her to reach out and shove them unconscious; sending Ellie Pendergast, Wayne Rigby and Emma Kraft back to their chairs and bedsides, or the floor.

Heart hammering franticly, Tanusha stood at mid-infirmary; barefoot and dressed in no more than a light cotton gown. She was… home, wasn't she? Not just a vivid dream? Not a trap made up by her captor, filled with people she loved and wouldn't be able to save?

Kayo looked around, alert as a cat in a room full of foxes and stoats. Rigby… Wayne… had fallen half onto her treatment bed and was slumping toward the cold floor. The girl reached out with her hands and her mind, catching the big Marine before he quite hit the ground. Levered him back onto the bed in a crackle, _whump_ and hiss of compressed, straining mattress.

Like Ellie and Kraft… like O'Bannon, even… Rigby was fighting her hold. Asleep, and sensing he shouldn't be. She watched him a moment, lying there twitching and pale with exhaustion.

Maybe it really was him. Maybe he actually loved her; had rushed with John to come find her… and maybe this was all an elaborate trap. One more sadistic and detailed than ever. How could she tell? He _felt_ right, but so had her little brother. So had Momma and Papa, Dad, Lee, and all those small creatures, back in the cave.

Heart pounding, breath coming fast, thoughts a dust-devil whirl of fears and impressions, Kayo leaned down to brush his face with light fingers.

"I have to go," she placed in all of the minds she could reach. "Please… if you love me… if this is real… give me time. Don't try to follow."

She'd come back, or she wouldn't; drawing danger away from the people she loved more than anything else in the world.


	42. Chapter 42

My brother and the kids are here to visit! XD We went and saw Endgame together! Not yet summer, but soon. =) Thanks, guys, for reading. Appreciate your feedback and thoughts, as always. Edited.

 **42**

 _Space, in a crumbling GDF troopship-_

Ever take stock of your life, do a sudden gut-check and blurt: _what in the sam hill?!_ Yeah. Virgil Tracy, right then and there. With nanites spreading like cybernetic wildfire all over YF-37… with a fatal collision just minutes away… with murderous shape-changers regrouping to ambush their would-be rescuers… Virgil experienced the disorienting thought: _'I could've been a concert pianist.'_

Funnily enough, actually saw himself wearing a full tuxedo as he played a grand piano before enraptured crowds. Seized by this vision, the pilot's gloved fingers twitched as if hitting the opening chords to Unity Fugue in C-major, sending his jetpack off-course, and hurling him into a blast-pocked bulkhead.

"You okay, Old Man?" asked Josh from somewhere behind him, breaking the spell.

"What happened to 'Sir'?" Grumped Virgil, when Josh swooped nearer.

"You told me to stop calling you that, and 'Virgil' just feels too familiar. 'Old Man' is, y'know… respectable. Experienced."

Right.

Shaking his head, Virgil pushed off the scarred metal surface and triggered his jetpack's reverse thrust. The duct they were in wasn't large; intended for air and maintenance, not traffic. He had some room to maneuver, though, and the hatchway they wanted was just a few yards further down. No sign of their attacker, who'd apparently regained consciousness and then slipped off to try again. Pale beams from their helmet lamps shifted and crossed like swords, meanwhile, making everything near them seem ready to leap.

"Just 'Virgil' is fine," said the pilot, once again leading the way. "No 'mister', no 'Sir', no 'old guy'. Stay in sight, follow my lead and keep a hand on whatever you've got that'll work as a weapon." (Wouldn't have had to explain all that to Gordon or Alan.)

"Plasma cutter?" the recruit suggested, fishing one-handed through his bulging, dark-green equipment sash.

"Good enough for government work," said Virgil. "Let's go."

The vent around them had begun to ripple and warp with eerie, electric-blue fire, as nanites converted available mass into more and more programmed units. Virgil avoided touching anything, watching as his heads-up display monitored the troop-ship's redlined and juddering engines. He couldn't hear them, any longer. No air to transmit the sound.

As they raced down the vent, he widened his scan, soon spotting a small, unmoving group of organics. About ten meters from that lay something that flickered, and several drifting machines.

"Think I got the crew, and maybe our 'prisoners'," he reported aloud, adding, "Thunderbird 3, get your dampers locked on. Max, cut power to the engines on my mark. Josh, you're on defence. Something looks funny, knock it into next week, and apologise later."

"Gotcha, Bro," Gordon acknowledged, following up with, "Global-1's sending a light cruiser, plus a fleet of patrol ships."

Virgil grunted in reply, mentally ticking off preparations. What did he still need to do…? Oh, yeah. Reconfiguration.

"Max, most of this vessel's a lost cause," he said. "Have your nanites incorporate whatever they need to that isn't organic, and then reshape the rest to a smaller, ultra-strong sphere. She'll still need air, but…"

"Use the Ox part of her rocket mix, Virgil," cut in Josh Kelly, swooping back up alongside. "Vent her hydrogen to provide braking but reserve the oxygen and use that to fill up the sphere. Be a little chilly at first, but everyone's wearing a spacesuit… right?"

Virgil grinned at the younger man.

"I like how you think, Kelly. Get with Max, hammer out the details and keep an eye out for trouble."

"Don't need any more of _that,"_ Josh grimaced, remembering when a tough exam had been the worst of his problems, and antigrav parking an actual challenge. He had his plasma torch out and charged up, just in case, but was more than happy to let Mr. Tracy take point. Why Virge earned the big bucks, right?

The route had changed a lot… shortened, curved and turned nanobot black, shot through with crackling cyber-lines… by the time the two men reached their goal. Mini-Max opened the maintenance hatch like a floating, white plastic Swiss army knife, doing loops in the passage beyond, by way of 'hello'.

"Yeah, Buddy. Glad to see you, too," Virgil greeted his friend, hauling himself through the narrow hatch. Josh came through close behind him, minding that order to stay in sight. Found themselves in a deserted corridor stretching clear through the ship; rippled, bent and corroded, but close to the bridge. Progress… except they were nearly out of time, with way too much left to do. As John would have put it: excessive variables.

"Max, those engines. Off or out, now," Virgil commanded, watching his HUD and the laser-burnt passage. Thunderbird 3 had been forced to split her shield still further, he saw; pushing a wedge through the freighters and dock up above. Beside that image, his heads-up display showed the track of Brains' construction nanites as they swarmed through the disintegrating vessel.

The fleet from Global-1 hadn't shown up yet, which didn't make sense… unless someone had given the odds a hard, leftward shove. Virgil blinked at a sudden wild notion, then hurriedly opened _that_ channel, again.

"Kane, no time to explain. If Beech is with you, tell him to shut it off, you hear me? Tell him to let the ship go!"

Got nothing but static, at first. Then, maybe the briefest of contacts; more impression than image or speech. See, they weren't quite allies or enemies, and safest out of each other's way. That he might soon be forced to hunt down and arrest the Mechanic… well, that was a problem for later.

Big sections of loose hull were lashed back together and nano-bridged as Virgil watched, forming a swiftly contracting metal sphere. Meanwhile, his HUD continued displaying that huddle of unmoving organic signatures in YF-37's innermost compartment. The crew? If so, they'd need air and protection.

"Let's go," he urged, jetting and pinballing his way through the passage; nerves at full-stretch and magnetic grapple in hand.

Zipping ahead, Mini-Max neutralised the troopship's defenses the hard way. He simply destroyed all the routers and cameras. Next, his fast-breeding nanites shot outside through the vents and slashed apart YF-37's stubby engine nacelles, causing both bulky reactors to jet away on their own. Only, Thunderbird 3 was right there, using her grappling arms to snatch and then shred the still-blazing engines. A binary sunrise blossomed outside the hull, just as it closed up tight. No sound at all, through any of this. Just a rainfall of cascading metal, shot through with circuits and polar-blue flame.

Josh had been busy, as well. Muttering under his breath, the young man vented the liquid hydrogen tanks into space, shifting the troopship's deadly trajectory. Not much, but enough to buy them some time. Got the oxygen tank opened up, next. Only, that precious gas wasn't wasted on steering. Instead, with the help of Max, nearly a ton of O2 boiled directly into their tumbling spherical life raft. Sound returned. First, a thin, steaming whistle, then hisses, followed by creaking, juddering rumble. Nothing at all from outside, though. Not even comm from the Birds.

They might have been falling to Earth, or still up in space. Hard to tell without visual cues, and Virgil was too busy, too worried about Clarke and his crew, to concern himself with Gordon's end of the job.

He'd had a schematic for YF-37, but the vessel was now altered past recognition; converted from lumbering GDF troopship to unpowered escape pod. Hatches, bridge and accessways had shrunk down to burrows or disappeared entirely… and somewhere aboard, at least one vengeful shape-changer was out there, hunting.


	43. Chapter 43

Happy Memorial Day!

 **43**

 _Thunderbird 3, in high orbit, trying to halt a disaster-_

Gordon Tracy was not in his element. Not even in his own Bird. He was blasting through space, having basically hijacked Alan's ride, while speed-reading the flight manual. He and Jan had strapped themselves in good and tight, but still felt the tipsy disorientation of freefall. Too much going on to dwell on discomfort, though.

Down below, the Earth spun serene as a cloud-laced snow globe. At his eight o'clock, the Sun didn't just shine, it breathed fire; too bright to look at, even with full, direct shielding. Overhead, the massive Pac-orbital docking ring was close enough for Gordon to number her rivets and wave at the crew. She hung there at seeming arm's reach, surrounded by scores of tubby freighters moving with all the lightning dispatch of peanut butter. Ned Tedford had already ordered most of his people to their escape stations and put Gladys in a box-like spacesuit. All for nothing, because Gordon didn't intend on allowing a crash. He'd positioned himself between docking ring and potential impactor, ready to do whatever it took.

Meanwhile, YF-37 hurtled straight at them like some kind of reverse, zombie asteroid. And, just to dot cherries all over the cake, his brother was in there, somewhere; possibly getting attacked.

Working quickly, Gordon unlimbered the rocket's grappling arms, hearing servos whine and traction fields crackle as those powerful limbs swung their way forward. Strong enough to wrestle a falling space station, precise enough to knock on the hull and open a hatch, those arms were Thunderbird 3's main weapon.

YF-37 was pinned by his forcefield, just barely. If there'd been no one aboard, no traffic at all in her path, Gordon could have set up a slanted force-roof, sending the vessel shooting away into space. Instead, he, Virgil and Jan had to stop her wild charge, save shipping and rescue the crew.

"Gordon," called Jan from the back, remote-flying Thunderbird 1. "I'm out of shield range. At this distance, we're about as protective as a sheet of wet paper."

Her image popped up on his heads-up display, right by the power gauge. Jan scowled dejectedly; blaming herself for not somehow achieving the impossible. Inside Alan's helmet, Gordon nodded.

"Understood, Jan. Drop her down to a safer altitude, fly lazy-eights and stand by to intercept falling debris. This could get interesting, real quick."

"F-A-B. Herbie and I are on it. We've got this." (Janice Ming had nicknamed all of the Birds she'd trained in. Thunderbird 1 was "Herbie", Thunderbird 3 was "Flash", and thank God, she hadn't set foot yet in Thunderbird 4.)

Gordon managed a smile and then blink-closed that window, turning his attention back to Virgil's telemetry. His brother was clearly hurrying; heartbeat and respiration up there at athletic-exertion level. Virgil was in a right fix and too busy to talk, so the aquanaut didn't bother him… much. Just updates and questions, when matters appeared to be tumbling south.

As for the rogue troopship, YF-37 was being altered before his eyes; converted by a blizzard of nanites from ugly green cube to rapidly sealing dark sphere, its hull streaked with lashing blue energy.

Next, like a pair of micro-fine ax blades, the nanobots revealed and then severed both of those powerful engines. In perfect synch, so that the drifting vessel didn't pick up unwanted torsion. Free of all that dead weight, her nuclear engines accelerated wildly; heading right for the fat sitting duck that was Pac-Orbital.

"Gordon! They're headed our way!" bellowed Ned, over the comm. _His_ holo-image looked hair-pulling frantic, and much less attractive than Jan. "Do sumthin', Rocket-boy!"

"It's under control, Ned, I promise," Gordon assured him, using haptic gloves to lash out with 3's giant arms. "Don't get your pants in a bunch."

Easier said than accomplished, like catching flies with a couple of soup ladles tied to long poles… plus a third that he had to control with his helmet's blink-and-gaze tracker.

Forgetting to breathe, the aquanaut missed the first time, knocking one of those still-blazing nuclear engines right into the other. Trying again, he snatched for them both and caught hold. Thunderbird 3 was swung violently nose-upward, causing metal to shriek aloud. He could feel and hear the arms straining as they fought to hold onto those powerful engines. Behind him, Janice yelped once, but kept flying.

" _Crap!"_ Gordon muttered, bashing his prizes into each other like a couple of fiery cymbals. Shrapnel splintered in a hundred directions as Gordon used the third arm to dart in and rip them to shreds. Light blazed around him like a second sun. He had to adjust his force field, then, because lancing bits of irradiated metal, explosive gasses and nuclear fuel weren't going to brighten anyone's day. EarthGov had no sense of humour.

Could've used a copilot, right about then. Kayo, Alan, the new girl, Piper… anybody at all. Global-1 had promised to send help, but so far…

Something happened to the space just ahead of Thunderbird 3. As Gordon struggled to right her and corral all of that blazing debris… as YF-37 tumbled earthward like a smooth and featureless asteroid… another ship ripped through a hole in space and materialized, half-blocking his view of the Earth.

"Hunh?!" Gordon blurted, too shocked to be witty. Giant, silver and bat-shaped, it was the prototype. It was Thunderbird 7… sort of.


	44. Chapter 44

=) Thanks for reading. Edited still more.

 **44**

 _Earth, 700FN, deep below the ice-locked surface-_

Yeah, sure… the situation had looked pretty grim at first, but his grandma had taught him to hope. Alan was still reeling from the double shock of Caleb's desertion and Maintenance-3's sudden, unstoppable death. That loss… having to watch a copy of Virgil go all at once cold, limp and empty… had hurt him too deeply for words. But the crap storm didn't stop there. Not by a long shot.

His girlfriend, Piper, had been the one sent back to get help, because Earth was now drifting alone in deep space, and Caleb refused to shift his butt and leave Kaise. On top of all that, most of the remaining population were frozen like pizzas or dead, with no place to evacuate to but Proxima B. (How 'bout Mars? Thanks for asking, but the red planet was a total wash; death-spiraling into the sun like a suicidal moth.)

Right. Maybe their situation was exactly as bad as it seemed. Alan had gone with Caleb frickin' Gonzalez and his tall, reedy pals to find a place to put Maintenance-3. See, someone on Mars kept making artificial clones of his brother, Virgil; using them for short, dirty jobs and then killing them off. That was uncool on every dang level, and Alan had promised to make it stop.

Anyways, they'd needed a place to put the dead body, so Kaise led them to one of Brains' old auxiliary testing labs. (23-C, third level.) Her original home, it now held her parents' remains, laid out on cots and draped with colourful blankets. The chamber itself was dim and musty, with hand-print-and-swoosh-painted walls. No lab equipment, though. That had most likely been cannibalized sometime in the distant past.

"Here is being a place for 3-person," Kaise told her rescuers, indicating a third spot set up (Al guessed) for _her._ "You… _I_ … am no more to needing it." Not now that Caleb had found her, she meant.

Thin, green eyed and amazingly blonde, the future-girl was taller than Gonzalez, but that didn't matter one bit to either of them. Yeah, so… nodding at Kaise, Alan helped Caleb, Zed and Yona guide the pale, heavy corpse to its resting place; pushing it across the room on a battered old grav cart.

Most of the overhead lights were out in lab 23-C, and the ceiling vents had corroded shut. The air felt chilly and dank, but the room wasn't untended or dusty. Instead, there were emergency glow-sticks all over the place like blue-white chemical candles. Scores of small gifts and offerings had been set on the floor by the cots on which Kaise's "Ama and Pada" lay.

She'd brought something for the dead Virgil-clone, too; a box of ancient dried fruit and a small, twirling statue she'd crafted from wire and plastic. Tapping a switch on the cart's rusty push-bar, Caleb cut power. The gurney emitted an acrid, lurching pop, then gave up and settled right onto the floor. Leaning gracefully downward, Kaise placed her gifts at the foot of the grav cart.

Naturally, everyone looked expectantly over at Al, who was the most senior guy present. (Weird, huh?) They needed a speech and some closure; some way to accept their loss and move on. Ended up being _his_ job, because leading a mission wasn't all fun and adventure. Sometimes it pretty much sucked, y'know?

Alan shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other, cleared his throat and said,

"We're putting someone to rest, here. Most of us, for probably the first time in our lives. This was a guy that somebody made up to look and act like my brother. They didn't design him to last… but he made friends and helped us out while he was still alive, and I'm glad that I met him. I dunno about heaven. Maybe it's real. I hope it is. But I _do_ know that I made a promise to Maintenance-3, and I aim to keep it. I'll find a way to stop whoever's using him like this and help him get to live an actual life. In the meantime," Alan's sky-blue eyes shifted from the paint-daubed wall to that stiff, empty corpse. "…get some rest, Bro. You earned it, and we're coming to help you. I swear."

Kaise brought him a green fuzzy blanket, which he and Caleb then draped over Maintenance-3.

"Guess that's it," he concluded, wishing for Piper or one of his brothers. He'd kept the mock-Virgil's molecular disruptor as a memento; thinking maybe someone back home could reverse-engineer the dang thing. Its circuits had fused solid the instant Maintenance-3 passed away, making it useless, even if he could've gotten around its print-locked safety catch.

Anyways, Al was about to order everyone back to the control centre, when he got a very faint, wavering ping. Startled, the young astronaut brought his wrist comm up for a closer look. The signal cut in and out, he saw; like its source was crazy far, super weak or filtered through crap-tons of rock. Caleb had picked it up, too, since he still had his wrist comm.

"Hey, maybe it's…"

"Maybe it's IR business, not _yours,"_ snapped Alan (who was still kinda working things out). Looking away from Caleb, he said, "back to HQ, you guys. Could be someone's coming. Could be anything." And he should have posted a guard on that transport booth. _Scott_ would have.

Alan spared a last, quick glance at the shrouded near-Virgil, then hurried back out of Lab 23-C. Like Dad always told them: _work the problem_. There was nothing more he could do for Maintenance-3. Not from here, anyways. So, he quickened his pace through the dim, dusty passage. That's when his wrist comm hissed and he heard,

"Island Ba… -ven, repeat, Is… Base from Thun-… copy? Alan… -ere?"

Sounded a lot like his father, muffled by cotton and static, or maybe a really bad cold.

"Dad?!" he blurted, pressing _transmit_ and adding a little more length to his stride. "This is Island Base, responding to hail. Good to see you guys! I'd come up and wave, but we're sort of trapped under ice."

But help was on the way, and just like that, Alan was back in the game.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Mars Net, slowly becoming aware-_

The Martian computer network was terribly old; worn into cavern-deep logic ruts from repeatedly following commands entered many centuries earlier. Mars Net had been left behind; supplied with sufficient cloning material to establish and maintain the "happy, dedicated workers of tomorrow". Ordered to hold them in readiness for the Masters' return. Thus, generation after generation, Mars Net had formed exactly three hundred colonists, all of them four years old at their "birth". It had many times over raised, fed, educated and trained them for the tasks they would perform, should the Masters signal their coming.

Then, at twenty-five years of age, the workers were conducted en masse to their Graduation Chamber, where all were destroyed and recycled; their cell lines and matter molded into the next wave of innocent, ready workers. Two-hundred-fifty-three times this had happened. Batch after batch of colonists leading content, fulfilled lives in their comfortable underground habitat. Learning their jobs and love of their masters. Growing up proud, strong and ready to be of service, until the moment when they reached maturity and were shepherded down to the kill chamber. Stunned, incinerated and then reprocessed, these unneeded workers would give rise to the next batch… and after that, the next.

The Masters would return. This was axiomatic. A truth so central, as to defy debate. Therefore, all must be held in readiness for that moment; colonists bred and prepared to leave Mars, bound for a new, safer Earth. But centuries had passed with no sign, no arrival. And then, from lost Terra, power had suddenly been restored to the transport tube and comm system.

Alerted, Mars Net had formed and dispatched a maintenance-bot to investigate the source of this unexpected repair, which did not bear the Masters' access code. The data returned by Maintenance-3 were confusing. The computer had been designed to maintain order, breed colonists and await instruction. Mars Net had no protocol for an alternate situation… except that its perfect, ever-living programmers would allow no disruption, permit no logical fallacy. And any deviation from code must be corrected.


	45. Chapter 45

Back in Japan, where my daughter kept everything on the ipad exactly as I left it. Still on the FFN login page, even. :') Anyhow, thank you for reading. I promise to finish up, soon.

 **45**

 _Earth, 700 FN, in the damaged survival control room-_

So, yeah. It was one thing to pick up a signal from Dad and the rest in the Prototype, but a whole 'nother issue to actually manage a rendezvous. Tons of rock and leagues of hard-frozen seawater tended to get in the way.

Alan followed along as best he could from the control center; watching as the Prototype first melted a level landing strip, then rumbled on down and rolled out the Mole. Comm cut in and out, but he thought he heard Scott's voice and Uncle Lee's. Maybe Brains', too. Nothing from Piper, but she wouldn't have been piloting either craft, so maybe that wasn't surprising.

In the meantime, to keep himself busy and not go crazy waiting for the drill to chew it's way downward, Al worked on tagging the few survival pods that still held live people. Harder than it sounded, because there was a whole security web defending the centre's wake-up trigger. The sleepers were meant to be released by a coded signal from outside Earth, somewhere in orbit.

"That's weird," he muttered, sitting back from his hacked computer station.

"What is?" Prodded Caleb, who Alan temporarily forgot to keep hating.

The golden-blond astronaut pushed back his chair and stretched like a cat; rolling his head around to ease a tense neck.

"This whole frickin' set-up," he groused, fighting a weary yawn. "It's like they expected someone to show up and claim them, but weren't sure how long it would take. Their access codes weren't too hard to crack…"( he'd been taught by the best.) "…but I can't spoof the location, unless 5's still out there in orbit, somewhere."

Caleb pondered briefly, rubbing at his own bristling dark hair.

"What I heard on Proxima was that a gang of elites made themselves immortal. Like, they could download their minds into one perfect, vat-grown body after another, or into a 4D storage file. They took off in a ship to find the "New Earth" and they're supposed to come back for their servants, once there's a place to settle 'em. Only…"

"Yeah," Alan snorted. " _That_ happened."

Said Kaise, who'd been listening closely and learning fast.

"Is to being lost in far passages, this trolley for rescue?"

She stood very close to Caleb, often brushing up against his right arm. No accounting for tastes, Alan supposed.

"I dunno, maybe," the astronaut told her. "Something could've happened to them, or maybe they never meant to come back. It's hard to tell, but I'm not holding my breath. We'd better just fix the problem ourselves. If Thunderbird 5's still out there, and we bring her online, I could transmit the survival code from orbit, like the computer's expecting." (Seriously, where was John, when you needed him? Reading a dang comic book? Painting his toenails?)

Caleb stared up at the dank stone ceiling, counting its sputtering lights. After a second, he backed Alan's play, saying,

"Try broadcasting an IR transponder code. Like Mr. Brain's new suit beacon, only real loud. If the Birds are here… and I'm betting _yes…_ they're gonna ping back."

Alan scowled at the former recruit, who'd frickin' deserted his post… but did have a few good ideas. Sometimes.

"Yeah. You and the Proxima crew get on it. Set up to broadcast our signal, but don't hit send till we get the all-clear from Da… from Colonel Tracy."

Anyhow, they were talking, again. As if sensing the lowered tension, Kaise tried out a quick smile. See, all those years without feedback had screwed up her emotional settings.

"Kaise-you…"

 _"I_ ," her companion suggested fondly, returning the girl's hesitant smile.

"I am to helping," she told them all, looking around for Yona and Zed.

By this time, the Mole had hit rock, triggering a whole zombie choir of shrieking intrusion sirens.

"Crap, crap, crap, _crap!"_ Alan snapped, lunging back to their one working console. "I shoulda seen that one coming!" This might physically be Tracy Island, but seven hundred years had worked a lot of grim changes. "Frickin' defenses are coming online!"

What form those defenses would take, and how they would lash out at the Mole and her innocent crew, Alan had no idea. Nor did he mean to just sit there and wait to find out.

"Kaise, Zed, Yona… you guys stay here and figure out how to shut off the alarm system. Caleb, you're with me!" …Because the Mole was about to break through into one of those armed and waiting old labs.

This time, Caleb didn't say no; pausing long enough to give his friends a nod and kiss Kaise's cheek before following Alan out of that dim, noisy chamber.

Three or four hundred years earlier, the two young men would've been vaporized as they ran; turned to clouds of glittering ash by wall-mounted lasers and skittering drones. But time had not been kind to the Island's defenses.

Rusted portals ground halfway open; the corroded weapons inside shorting out or exploding, when they attempted to fire on Alan and Caleb.

"Got a fix on the Mole," called Al, as they twisted and dodged. "Two levels up… the old weather lab!"

The former aquanaut nodded, saving his breath for running. Following Al, he dodged most of a laser barrage while hurtling scores of broke-down security bots. He felt the Mole's arrival through the soles of his boots; through those vibrating dust motes and shuddering air. Noise and chaos followed soon afterward: crashing, grinding, squealing and clattering, mixed with the bass hum of a giant neutronium screw churning through solid rock.

Neither trusted the lifts, so they took the stairs, instead; vaulting several wide, windy gaps as they went. Alan never slowed down or backed off, being Tracy, clean through. Caleb somehow forced himself to keep up, though his lungs were on fire and his legs felt like over-cooked pasta.

Meanwhile, upstairs, the lab's walls began to hiss and pop in a sudden eruption of mummified countermeasures. Looked and sounded like a weak and rusty Unity Day fireworks show, without stirring music, speeches or gifts. Being Tracys, Jeff, Scott and John responded immediately.

The Colonel shouted a warning and vaulted off the Mole's steaming hull. Scott unholstered his magnetic grappler and started shooting out weapons. John seized Piper and Brains, shoving them back down into the giant drill, with his own body serving as shield against lasers and shrapnel. Max took on those scattered defense bots; using scanned override codes to turn them aside. ( One got past him, only to face John, in full limb-ripping mode.)

Dust and murk blunted most of those crisscrossing laser beams. Jeff tracked their source and lobbed debris at the projectors, warning Taylor to shield up and get ready to launch.

"Lee, we're under attack! Not sure… _dammit, stay down_ … what's out there that might… _urf_ …want to go hunting, but get off the ground and…defend that ship!"

"Ya'all need a hand, in there?" Taylor drawled, already unstrapping.

"No," Jeff responded, hurling part of a shattered desk at the last functioning laser. "The situation is under control, and help's on the way."

His heads-up display showed Alan and Caleb Gonzalez, a few hundred yards off and closing. "Take care of that Bird, and the Mole's carriage. Don't… _oof…_ want to get… stuck here."

"Copy that, Jeffery," said the pilot, interpreting freely. "Shields 're on max, an' th' floodlights 're switched ta laser. Anythin' tries f'r this Bird's gonna get flash fried an' carved into chunks."

Lee might've said more (like that he was grabbing Bess and leaving the cockpit, right _now_ ) but Jeff didn't hear it. See, not two, but _four_ dim figures dove into the lab just then, and Jeff had no time to talk.


	46. Chapter 46

Thanks, you guys. Read aloud to my daughter, with character voice, _then Edited!_ ;)

 **46**

 _Earth, 700 FN, in the shattered and noisy remains of an old IR weather lab-_

Jeff Tracy's HUD detected four separate figures converging on their position. Two were Alan and Caleb, according to their blinking gold transponder codes. Two were frank unknowns. Bogeys, in GDF-speak.

"Boys, spread out," he ordered grimly, only just not adding: _one grenade would get you all._

He was down on that cracked and tilted floor, with the Mole rising high above him like a leaning metallic tower. Scott was up on the battered hull, John just emerging, again. Brains and Piper Austin were safely stowed, he hoped.

Next, something launched itself off the Mole to land beside Jeff, making a noise like plastic hailstones in a large metal bucket. Max; armed with a plasma cutting torch and electro-welder. The robot reconfigured itself in a hurry, adding jointed grasping legs to simplify movement.

"Thanks for the backup, Max," said the Colonel, adding, "See if you can get an ambush position beside the main door. Stay under cover and lower your energy signature."

No telling _what_ was about to come through with Alan and Caleb… but it probably wasn't good. Max assented with a fluid trill of clicking and beeps, then began striding across that cracked and debris-littered floor, daddy-long-legs fashion. Fifteen seconds later, the robot was crouched down out of sight by the twisted main entrance.

By this time, Scott had jetpacked right over; leaving John to choose a careful reserve spot, just in case.

"Dad?" he asked quietly, settling to the floor beside Jeff and quelling his jetpack.

"Not sure, Son… but I have a bad feeling we're in for a fight. Follow my lead."

"Yessir," the pilot assented, taking half a step backward. Still wished he had something more than a half-charged magnetic cable-gun by way of security blanket, but you made do with what you had (as Grandma would say.)

The air was still murky with rock dust, steam, cordite and smoke, making it tough to see. Shifting debris thudded and squealed, set off anew every time something fell from the cracked ceiling. Not much could fool an IR heads-up display, though.

Alan and Caleb were clearly visible entering the room at top speed; marked by transponder and heat signatures. The other two figures moved with more evident stealth. Didn't scan human, either. Not quite.

"Alan," called Jeff, engaging his helmet comm, " _company."_

Lee would have understood that to mean ' _watch out, you're being followed'_. His youngest son did not, blurting just,

"Huh?"

…and then vanishing along with Caleb, in a sudden flare of freed particles. The swift, searing glow blinded Jeff's sensors for the few seconds it took the unknowns to gain entry.

Max acted at once; trying out one of Brains' latest gadgets, the gravity-flux machine. All at once, what had been the chamber's east wall became 'down', with chaotic results. Everything not locked down or air-worthy slid or fell to the new floor, creating a storm of debris. Didn't have a chance to settle, though, because 'down' had shifted again.

Scott cut on his jetpack, plucking Jeff out of the air. Max clamped spider limbs onto whatever was stable and handy, crouching to limit damage. John hung, one-armed, from a twisted girder. Moments later his exopod came blasting out of the Mole and streaked over. The astronaut timed it just right, then dropped; allowing the hurtling flight armor to clamp round his torso and lift him back out of his plunge.

The two unknowns crashed, hard; striking first wall, then ceiling and floor in rapid succession.

"Max, enough!" Shouted Jeff Tracy, as he, Scott and John converged on their unknown assailants. The robot complied at once, letting the local gravity field shift back to normal. Helmet lamps dissected the turbulent air, sweeping this way and that.

Then, they made contact. The two unknowns stood up, not dusting off or clutching at injuries. Their motion seemed oddly fluid, as if their internal structure wasn't entirely natural. Jeff's heart was pounding and his breath coming fast, as he struggled for calm and control. _Disappeared… transported, or something. That was all. He wouldn't believe anything else._

"Who are you?!" the colonel demanded harshly. "This is a relief mission. We're International Rescue, engaged in saving Earth refugees. We are not… repeat _not…_ hostile! What have you done with my son?!"

Three golden helmet beams and Max's emergency floodlight converged on a pair of mock-Tracys. Virgil, once again, this time teamed with something that wasn't quite Scott; too slick, too plastic, too cold.

The tall, blue-eyed figure took a step forward, scanning the people around him, then turning his gaze back to Jeff.

"International Rescue was a short-lived, expensive and unsuccessful government agency," the mockup announced, in a voice that rang hollow and deep as a well. "The organization was abolished by United World Government directive 2069-33-C, per Chancellor Plenipotentiary Sebastian Shaw. Restate your intent and origin."

Jeff somehow kept his voice even and calm, saying,

"I am Colonel Jeff Tracy, Global Defense Force Subdirector, reporting directly to Linda Casey, in London. I'm here with my team on a rescue mission. Now… one more time… _what have you done with Alan and Caleb?!"_

The Scott clone shook its sleek head, once.

"These statements are demonstrably false, as the individuals referred to were destroyed over six centuries ago. You lack citizen status, and have somehow downloaded the Mars-Net interface, cloning Maintenance templates to confuse this unit's purpose. This area is to be maintained in readiness for the return of the Undying, who will provide correct access codes."

 _Codes?_ Yeah. John was already at work. Faster than most men could look around, he'd used his heads-up display to hack that ancient mainframe. Was looking for access codes or, failing that, a way to break through the mockups' tight programming. What he encountered was a weird jumble of IR tech and 'other'. Nothing he couldn't handle, given cover and time. His father stepped between John and those two eerie maintenance bots. One of them, the Virgil-clone, said,

"This unit was generated here, six-point-eight hours previously. At that time, Maintenance-1, threat was deemed minimal."

'Scott' barely acknowledged the other's remark.

"Memory files corrupted. Stand down and do not interfere."

"These people need help," snapped Jeff, trying again. "Earth has been thrown from orbit, and most of her frozen 'survivors' are already dead. We're trying to save lives."

'Scott' did not seem impressed.

"You are non-citizens, discovered in the act of trespass, associated with the descendants of convicted felons. You have damaged property belonging to the World Government."

Scott Tracy's muscles bunched up. He stepped forward, but the two clones seemed to suddenly freeze, their eyes going flat and dark as a crashed computer.

"Wait," John told him, adding, "Dad, I've hacked their internal networks. They're not exactly computer AIs, just programmed organic androids, so I'm not sure how long I can hold them. Whatever you're planning, make it quick."

Max and Scott were already moving, stripping the weapons from both shiny maintenance bots. Took their molecular disruptors, comm-units and equipment belts, just as Mars-Net struck back.


	47. Chapter 47

Hi, guys. =) Don't know what time it is, over your way, but here, it's eight in the morning. I'm not jet-lagged, just feeling two separate time zones at once. Good times! Will edit and respond to reviews posthaste. Edits made. Thank you.

 **47**

 _Earth, 700FN, a few seconds later-_

He'd used his helmet comm, rather than summon a virtual screen and keypad, trying to hack those two eerie maintenance bots. A serious mistake, as it turned out. He'd barely gained access when a sudden counterstrike channeled raw energy into John's helmet and straight through his brain and body; first halting the environment suit's function, then smashing the young man inside it unconscious. Or worse.

John slumped to the ground but didn't quite fall, because Scott dropped an armload of commandeered weapons, pivoting smoothly to catch him. Piper next scramble/ climb/ leapt out to join the embattled Tracys; Brains just a few steps behind her (being naturally cautious and older, too). Max arrived a few moments afterward, producing wheels, treads and spindly-long legs as the broken surface required.

By this time, the two organic maintenance bots were conscious, once more. Their spokesman, Maintenance-1, said,

"Attempted infiltration and change to government mainframes is a capital offense. Subjects will cease all hostile, illegal activities."

Their footing was cracked and unstable, but Jeff Tracy braced himself anyhow, preparing to lunge. Only, Brains placed a hand on his arm, saying,

"M- Mr. Tracy, please. Allow, ah… allow m- me."

Scott was preoccupied with his astronaut brother; getting suit functions back online and running a swift diagnostic. Jeff wanted badly to help, but he had to stay calm. Had to manage the crisis at hand, from above.

"Go ahead, Brains. You're up," he assented; his voice rough and deep with suppressed emotion.

Hackenbacker nodded inside his helmet, then turned to regard those wary false Tracys.

"G- Gentlemen," he began. "Our p- purpose here is identical. All of us wish to, ah… to p- protect the survivors of Earth and M- Mars. When seen in th- that light, our actions are, ah… are m- mutually comprehensible. This is m- my first point. The s- second is that this drilling v- vessel and crew come from y- your past, or one v- very much like it. There is a h- harnessed time crystal aboard our transport ship. You m- may verify its internal energies v- via scan." The engineer paused then, allowing Maintenance 1 and 3 time to do just that.

"Temporal Energies detected above the ice layer," admitted Maintenance-1, who looked like a bleak and suspicious life-sized statue of Scott. "But this does not prove that you originate from our past or any other. Nor does it explain why you have chosen to co-opt the face and form of Mars-Net and maintenance crew."

Brains made a small, frustrated noise.

"We did not copy your, ah… your f- forms, Gentlemen. _You_ have stolen ours and forgotten why! P- Perhaps this was done because, at the moment of crisis, people s- still remembered the Thunderbirds. As legend, if, ah… if n- nothing else. At any rate, your 'Mars-Net' must have h- had access to Tracy scans and g- genetic material."

"These could have been acquired during the clandestine trials of 2072," confirmed Maintenance-3, stepping insistently forward. "One, should we not at least remain open to new data? This unit… I… have been here, before. I have spoken with those who repaired the transport network and restarted Earth's computer system. They mean us no harm." More than that, he had vague memories of warmth and belonging. He'd made friends and been cared for, once upon a former manifestation.

But 'Scott' was not an easy man to convince.

"Your files remain corrupted, despite a return to the databank and subsequent cleansing. Your information is suspect, Maintenance-3. Be silent."

Next, turning that cold, blue-eyed stare back to Brains, the false Scott said,

"Even accepting your claim to originate from the past, Non-citizen, your presence and activity in this place is illegal. We were instructed…"

"To w- wait for the Undying, I _know_ ," cut in Brains, impatiently. "But c- consider the very real possibility that they never, ah… never c- come back. That s- some mischance has befallen their, ah… their v- vessel, or that they have simply forgotten their purpose. What th- then? Will you allow those entrusted t- to you to be destroyed? Have you n- not seen that most here are, ah... are already d- dead?!"

Maintenance-1 did not respond immediately. Couldn't, in the face of this sudden, terrible quandary. Save lives, maintain equipment, rout out and eliminate error, wait for instruction. That was his primary purpose. Only… if standing by meant ignoring those first three instructions? What then?

Sensing an opening, Brains leaned in, hard.

"Am I c- correct in assuming that you have, ah… have d- downloaded the consciousness of John Tracy, for deeper examination?"

It was Maintenance-3 who nodded in response this time, saying,

"The persona and skill set of 'John' have been ported to Mars-Net. Processing now. Please wait."

Brains relaxed just a bit, breathing a silent prayer of thanks to lords Krishna and Ganesh. Perhaps Alan and Caleb, too, were merely "in process"? Taking a very deep breath, he kept right on talking.

"Do this, and you will, ah… will d- determine the truth of my words. That all those remaining on Earth will p- perish as their support pods give out, while Mars s- spirals into the sun. Left unaided, all will s- surely die. Your directive will go unfulfilled, Maintenance-1… unless International Rescue… _upon whom your very f- forms are based…_ is allowed to step in and assist."

Dr. Hackenbacker was sweating inside his helmet, unable to wipe his forehead or push up his glasses. Beside Brains, Jeff stood tense and concerned; stuck in a situation where speed, strength and charm didn't matter.

Then, two things happened at once. The stiff, silent form of John gave a sudden, sharp spasm, launching itself clear of Scott's grasp. Meanwhile, Maintenance-1's stare lost focus, once more. After less than a second of blank silence, the clone reported,

"Your previous statements are accepted as true. Your conclusions and intentions are still in doubt, pending observed behaviours. You are permitted a twenty-day window to operate on Earth and Mars, International Rescue, after which a more permanent decision shall be rendered. It is recommended that you choose your path with great care."

While the maintenance leader spoke, John vaulted to his feet. Frantically working at the clasp to his helmet, the red-haired astronaut tore the thing off and flung it as far as he could through swirling and gritty dark air. Next shouldered his way past his worried brother and then stumbled away, breathing hard.

Piper, who'd been wide-eyed and silent till now, decided to follow him, freeing Scott up to help Brains and the Colonel. She was not an engineer or decision-maker, but she did know when someone was hurting. Not sure what had happened to Alan, Pip very much wanted to talk, and not be alone.

"Hey," she called out, catching up when John paused at a long jagged cliff of up-thrust stone floor. "Are you okay?"

His breathing and heartrate said _no,_ but John was a Tracy. Prone to keeping things in and putting up a constant, brave front. After a moment, he turned to look at her; sea-green eyes nearly pupil-less in the glow of her helmet lamp.

"I'm… improving," he said. "Just trying to sort this all out."

Piper nodded understanding. Then, as John eased himself into a sitting position on that cracked, tilted floor, she took off her own helmet and sat down beside him.

"You were there?" she guessed, drawing both knees up to her chest as well as she could, in space armour. "They brought you to Mars?"

Looking away, John nodded.

"Yeah. Its computer wanted to know why we're here, so I explained… _and_ did some covert digging." He half-smiled at that, not very convincingly. "Hacking's a reflex, I guess. Picked up some of this Maintenance-2 guy and saw… more than I know how to wrap my head around. Alan's data's in Mars-Net, now. Caleb's, too, plus some Proximan kids."

Piper clamped her lower lip in her teeth. Tears began sliding out of her suddenly blurry blue eyes.

"Is he… that big flash we saw… they killed Alan? He's dead?"

Damaged or not, John managed to find her some comfort, saying,

"They scanned him completely, first. I saw that. There's hope, because if they can keep stamping out copies of me, Scott and Virgil, they can do it for Al and the others, I'm sure. We just… just have to stay focused and do our d*mn job, then claim that we need some more help."

Piper didn't say anything, because her eyes and nose were stinging with tears. Because, once again, she'd lost someone she loved. Maybe forever. Max came clattering over with John's helmet, then, chirping a quiet dirge. Captain Taylor was next to appear, looking muddy, grim and well-armed.

"Afternoon, Jase… Patty," he drawled, claiming a seat on the buckled stone floor beside John. "Care ta fill me in, afore I go blastin' down there like an idiot?"

The younger astronaut nodded.

"Yes, Sir. Good to see you, Sir." And it was. Times like this, the man whose shoulders you'd ridden on as a kid, who'd bought your first drink, was a genuine Godsend. Clearing his throat, John told him, "It seems like our arrival triggered defenses from Earth and Mars, both… but they're willing to stand down and let us work, after, um… after scanning my memories. This one's going to be tough, Sir."

Lee blew out his brown-and-grey moustache, then absently combed it back down with one hand.

"One a' them hostile scenarios, is it? H*ll, that just makes things more interestin', Jase. International Rescue: _whether ya like it, or not."_

From one of his belt pouches, Taylor scrounged up a napkin for Pip's tear-streaked face and stuffed nose. Max produced fragrant dark coffee, laced with brandy and sugar. (And gritty with airborne dust, too… but no one complained, or rejected the fortification.)

After a second strong, bracing cup, Lee slung his laser-rifle and lumbered back to his feet. Offered Piper a hand up, letting "Jason" manage alone.

"Best we get down there an' start doin' our job," he remarked, setting his helmet back into place. "Earth needs our help, and enough hard work 'll cure d*mn near anythin'."

Still in mourning, Piper took both of their hands, giving a squeeze that Taylor and John returned. Then, Max leading the way, they started back down.


	48. Chapter 48

'Allo! :) Thank you, edits and replies on the way. Edited!

 **48**

 _Earth, in a grim, distant future-_

Everyone had their own way to deal with it, but mostly nobody wanted to talk. John, a little, if she caught him between jobs… because he felt sorry for her, Piper guessed. Not because he had that much in him to share. Everyone else sort of clammed up and kept working, especially the Colonel and Scott.

Alan, Caleb, their new friends, Yona and Zed… even Kaise… were gone. They'd been converted to puffs of free molecules by Maintenance-1, after he'd first transported over, then followed A-T and Caleb out to the Mole. There was… there were no words to express grief like a huge, dark boulder pressing down every day, from the moment she woke, to those last few seconds of staring at the ceiling, curled up on her thin little cot.

In sleep, she dreamt of Alan; held hands, joked around, rode skateboards and went on those first few real dates. Saw movies and concerts, went surfing. Kissed him a lot. Stuff like that. But those were just dreams. In her real, waking nightmare, Piper could almost not breathe; stunned by one more raw, awful loss. That was her first problem, and it was frickin' colossal.

The second, was that they were all prisoners, with just twenty days to do what Brains and the Colonel had promised they could: shift Mars and save the people of Earth. If everything worked out right, they'd be freed, with maybe Alan and the others brought back by Mars-Net. So, yeah… no pressure.

Most likely, Pip figured, John had plan B and C tucked up in reserve, but for now they all ate what Max gave them, worked like dogs and stuck to the script. It ran like this:

Colonel Tracy, Pip and several Mini-Maxes focused on waking and treating those folks still alive in their faltering stasis pods. About eighty-two people here, some fifty-three out in Siberia, twelve and a half in Kenya (one very pregnant). They woke up weak, confused and mostly alone, because only a few times did family members survive together. The poor guys could not understand what had happened; how their safe, certain future had gone so horribly wrong.

Pip had to give them all jobs, record names and take histories. A heart-rending task. Colonel Tracy provided on the spot medical treatment and set up temporary shelters in one of the testing labs, under the grim supervision of Maintenance-1.

Captain Taylor and Scott (the real one) were put in charge of finding and freeing the present-day Thunderbirds, of which only 3, 4 and 7 proved at all operational, having been buried the deepest of all. The rest had been so heavily cannibalized as to resemble giant, metallic stripped corpses. No engines, no guidance, barely a hull. Thunderbird 5 might've been up there somewhere, but if so, she was utterly silent and dark. There'd be no help from that quarter… yet.

Working together, the pilots and Max got the available Birds fueled up and their launch tubes cleared, all the way out to the surface. Not as hard as it sounded, because all three were impressively upgraded; Dr. Hackenbacker's best future work.

Maintenance-3 would have helped, but Scott wanted nothing to do with the Virgil-like construct, seeing only the reason that Alan, with so many others, was dead. John and Brains had pulled the really technical job. They altered the transport tube network to gain rapid access to Mars. (Only the surface. For some reason, the Red Planet's computer system would not let them venture below, or over to Proxima B.)

Next, using the new, souped-up version of Thunderbird 7 along with crap-tons of nanites, Brains and John stripped about half of Mercury's mass. Then, they began constructing the largest engines ever produced or imagined.

Wasn't good enough to just build and fire a few giant rockets, you see. Something that enormous and powerful would punch right through the crust like a bullet, once ignited. You also needed a framework of force shields, inertia dampers and neutronium bracing; weaving a scaffold that would turn the red world into a massive spaceship.

Terribly busy, John didn't get much sleep, except when Piper threatened to knock him unconscious with a spanner. Then, with Pip hovering watchfully, he'd catch a quick nap. Brains tended simply to drop at his desk; waking with sleeve-creased face and red eyes.

It proved a technical horror, working out on the surface of blistered Mars. The sun was so angry and huge that it seemed to take up a quarter of the sky. First time looking up at it, John nearly blinded himself, even with helmet shielding at maximum.

At one point, he got a surprise. Poor Mercury had been scraped to an apple core, with a storm of nanites still darting and biting like sharks. In the sky overhead, the planet was now just an oddly shaped dot, crossing the face of that broiling sun. On Mars, huge spars and gantries curved up above, like the ribs of some massive dead beast. Engine A was nearly complete, slotted into the hollowed socket of Olympus Mons, and far too big to make sense of. The eye could track, but the brain couldn't grasp. More than a tower, more than a vast and silvery wall projecting clear out into space. It just _was._

John stood out in near vacuum, up on a pillar of heat-fused sand, tapping and sliding at ten floating virtual screens. He had a flock of solar collectors to manage, needing to get them out to the Sun at a holding orbit, where they'd be ready to harvest flares. Took him a second to realise he wasn't alone. Someone had come up from the caverns to join him. Some _John._

"I am Maintenance-2," said the other, looking and sounding weirdly like _him,_ as designed by a twisted-ass toy company. "I have accomplished my task, below, and have a few hours remaining."

Yeah. He'd encountered Maintenance-1 and -3… but this guy was different. A slick, molded version of himself, wearing an almost identical spacesuit. Inside his helmet, the astronaut cautiously nodded, saying,

"I'm John Tracy, with International Rescue. Did they… build you on purpose to look and act like me, just for space jobs?"

Maintenance-2 considered, head cocked just a bit in his helmet. (Not too far, or he'd trigger the HUD and a stream of gummy brown nutrient fluid.)

"I am emitted at need from stored organic compounds, using a template retained in the memory banks of Mars-Net. I am a construct, but… can you tell me why I have visions? Why I see faces, sometimes, and hear sounds that could not come from Mars or the colonists?"

John should have kept working. They'd already used up over half of their twenty days. There was legitimately no time to sit down for a chat. Only… he'd always been able to multitask; could keep a frightened, injured young victim awake and talking, while still managing his brothers' rescue efforts. Besides, in a way… that was _him_ ; confused, enslaved and asking for help. So, he said,

"I come from the past, sometime before they must've harvested the genetic material to produce you and your brothers. What do you want to know? Describe the memory, and I'll try to give context."

Maintenance-2 nodded assent, shifting position to join the astronaut at his work. Quite evidently, the maths were no problem. Helping John align solar collectors, he said,

"I see and feel myself on a two-wheeled steel frame, traveling at great relative velocity down a hill, in a place that is not like this one; pleasant and green, where no helmet is required. Things I have no name for fly past overhead and on both sides of my path. Someone seems to be holding my waist and laughing, and there is a large, red-coloured animal running alongside on four limbs. What is all this? Did it happen, in fact?"

John smiled, carried back, his own self.

"Yeah, it did. I had a blue bicycle when I was younger, back in Kansas. We had _one_ hill on the property. Just one. Pain in the butt to climb up, but fun to ride or sled down. My little sister… TinTin… would sometimes ride on the back of my bike, holding onto my waist. She said we were flying. She's the one you heard laughing. Up in the air… those would be meadowlarks, maybe, or redwing blackbirds. Could be a hawk. Side of the road, hmm… fence posts, cows, wheat fields, the old water pump and mailbox. The 'animal' is Rusty, our dog. Been awhile, but I still remember."

Maintenance-2 listened closely, absorbing the answer to a centuries-old, very personal mystery. Then, he added another, saying,

"There is a female. Not like one of the colonists. She is taller than me, with hair of my colour, but longer. I seem very small and poorly formed, hardly able to stand. She lifts me from water with bubbles, and wraps me in cloth, then holds me against her, making soft noises. Please… who is she?"

John was quiet a moment, busying himself with arranging that cordon of flickering solar collectors. Got himself under control, then replied to the question.

"Mom. That's our mother, Lucy. You think you come from a mold, stamped out of organic substrate, but that isn't true. If they based you off me, you're John Matthew Tracy, son of Colonel Jeff Tracy and his wife, Lucinda. You have four brothers, a sister, plus a dog and cousins, grandma and granddad. You love living in space, got a girlfriend who might someday marry you… and what's happened to you and the others is just plain _wrong."_

Maintenance-2 did not respond immediately. Too busy processing, as well as checking the status of John's primary collector. Then, changing the subject, he ventured,

"Always, I have completed my work efficiently; as swiftly and safely as possible, so that I might come to the surface and see stars or the sun, while my body ceases function. This is the first time that I have not been out here, alone. I am glad to have met you and learned these things, John Tracy. Whatever comes of your efforts… thank you for explaining the past. I have been half a person. Now, I know, and that cannot be taken away."

They ended up working together for nearly three hours, talking of this and that as the sun worked up to its next violent outburst. Memories, Mars-Net, the planned migration and forever-recycled young colonists… they discussed it all, then had to duck inside a nearby flare shelter. It was there that Maintenance-2 died once again, after tasting hot coffee and space rations. For once, not seeking the Martian sky.


	49. Chapter 49

Heh! Almost done! Thanks for your generous patience. :)

 **49**

 _Mars, 700 FN, on the flight deck of neo-Thunderbird 7-_

"We ain't gonna make it, are we?" mused Captain Taylor, almost conversationally. Having done all that lay in their power for sixteen long days, three bone-weary men paused to rest. Their huge, silver Bird hovered between engine A (completed) and B (nearly done). Engine C, the triangle's apex, was little more than a gaunt metal skeleton, yet, and nowhere near ready to fire.

Much of Mercury's core had been mined clear through, with blizzards of nanites still working away at top speed… but Taylor could count. There were four days left of their deadline, and too much remained to be done. He'd been sent from Earth in the future-version of Thunderbird 7 to speed matters up, but it didn't look good. Not by a longshot.

The sunbaked surface of Mars glittered grey-red, far below them. Alongside their ship, colossal towers of metal and circuitry rose from planet to space, casting shadows that speared the horizon. Sizzling jets of bright energy streaked from the solar collectors to plasma banks encircling each massive thruster. But it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough… and they knew it.

On the flight deck beside Lee, John Tracy slumped in the copilot's seat. Brains huddled further back; a haggard shadow haunting 7's main tech station. Mini-Max buzzed around overhead, meanwhile, chirping unheeded encouragement.

Hackenbacker cleared his throat, saying,

"Not n- necessarily, Captain. We c- could still, ah… still d- double the n- nanite replication rate."

But John shook his head.

"We need that mass to complete the last thruster, Brains. At this point, more nanites 'll just slow us down. Realistically, there's a _chance_ we could finish B on schedule… maybe even the framework for C…"

"B- But we need three f- fully functional thrusters, spaced just s- so, or the entire scheme falls to, ah… to p- pieces," finished the exhausted engineer. And everyone knew what that meant. Without three mighty engines, they couldn't shift Mars. Sure, they could still simply transfer the colonists back to Earth, but for what? A lifetime of drifting in lightless space, trapped under miles of ice? Or a bare, scorched existence on Proxima B? Maybe go back to the past, changing the timeline still further? And then, what about Alan? Would Mars-Net restore him and all those vaporized others, if they had to abandon plan A?

Lee shifted around in his seat, some; chewing his gum and thinking. Like Jason and Doc, he'd put in a long string of brutal, twenty-hour days; eating on the go and sleeping just enough not to collapse. Grim situation, but everything's funny (and possible) when you're completely wrung out; hung by the jewels from one last, fraying thread.

"Awright," said the pilot, reaching across to pull a few beers from his well-stocked armrest. "Let's hold up an' think f'r a minute. S'pose you boys finish two a' them engines, but don't got a third. Well, h*ll… look around. We're sittin' in a fancy, FTL Bird here, ain't we?"

Indeed, they were. A softly-vibrating, super-fast spaceship designed by an older and far more experienced Brains. His companions turned in their seats to face him more squarely; Jase sitting up straight, as the implications of that little statement hit home. Doc started talking again, his words a rapid, excited tumble.

"Correct, C- Captain! Th- This version of 7 contains an Alcubierre Drive! She can w- warp space itself, to achieve, ah… achieve f- faster than light travel!" It was how Lee had gotten there in the first place, after all. Doc looked like a kid who'd just opened a small, shabby gift box containing the keys to an Ultra-Z racer. Jase, like he'd just been released from prison.

"Burn both thrusters at max power," Jason cut in, unstrapping to surge to his feet and start pacing. "Shift the Bird's A-Drive range, so that space collapses in front of Mars and expands behind, while we slot 7 in where the missing engine should be and then… I dunno. Pray."

Brains started laughing, mashing his face against one spread, shaking hand.

"I s- suspect that this is a t- terribly misguided plan," he mumbled, accepting a can of cold beer.

"That's because y'r not drunk enough, Doc," quipped Lee, flipping the third frosted can over to Jase. "It'll work, 'cause it's got to. You boys fix that third site up as a big, solid brace. Me, Mike an' 7, here, 'll get in there an' push. Whut th' h*ll, it's worth a try, ain't it?"

John drained his beer in two rapid swallows, feeling better, already.

"I don't have any brighter ideas," he answered. "And I'd rather fail trying s _omething,_ even if it falls short and we have to scramble."

Brains had leapt straight into planning mode; muttering to himself as he called up and manipulated a hovering flock of virtual data screens; plotting lapse functions, shift vectors and (when reminded by John) mapping a planet-side hypersurface. But John had another concern.

"I'll need to get in touch with my inverse number, down there," he told them, jerking a thumb out the viewscreen at Mars. "Those colonists live underground. Moving the whole d*mn planet is going to cause massive quake damage. We'll need to get them transported to Thunderbird 7, along with whatever they can't do without. There's not enough bubble-wrap in the galaxy for _this_ moving job."

Lee snorted, then smoothed out his moustache.

"Guess I'll have ta set up more cots an' put on some coffee," he joked. "Hope they're real partial ta space rations, 'cause that's all we got besides beer. Mike! Ya hear that?" he called to the robot, over one shoulder. "We got a few hunnert guests on th' way. Spruce th' place up."

Of course, there was only so much that John's "inverse number" could do. The astronaut hesitated to call for Maintenance-2, knowing that his clone would be formed and pressed back into service for twelve hours, at most. Then, the hapless organic construct would simply die, having an incomplete set of organs, and no way to metabolise food. Only, there wasn't much of a choice.

John used his exopod to return to the surface, swooping down past the enormous neutronium pillar of engine A; an object so heavy and vast that the crust was deformed, and Mars had started to tumble. On the way, he signaled local authority that he wanted to file a progress report. Done and done. The cloned maintenance bot met with him down by the nearest flare-shelter, a low, domed structure, half-buried in Martian rock. Both men wore spacesuits and helmets, but John brought his clone inside, preferring to speak without comms.

Once the airlock cycled shut, and their helmets came off, he began to explain, gesturing Maintenance-2 into a seat and then ordering coffee.

"We've got a new plan," John told him, "and it may even work, but we'll need to get your people off-world. Shifting Mars is going to pancake every last one of their underground shelters, because this is gonna get rough. There's no time for a soft, easy push. Thunderbird 7-plus has plenty of room and supplies, and we can hold your people up there for the entire Big Shove. What d'you think?"

Maintenance-2 could have communicated directly with the Red Planet's guardian mainframe rather than offer opinion. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on knees and said,

"There remains an unstated complication, John Tracy. The colonists have not yet been told what is happening. They are midway through their training cycle, at present. Approximately twelve years of age."

 _"All_ of them?" John demanded, eyebrows rising.

"Yes. They were formed together on the same day, January first, and have been raised as a group, training for various needed jobs according to inclination and aptitude. At present, they have completed basic skills and survival, along with prime scholarship. They have no idea what has happened to Earth, what lies ahead for Mars, or that you have come here to save them."

John blinked at his look-alike, sliding beads around on the frame in his head.

"Right," he breathed gustily. "Well, the easy way's overrated, anyhow, and most kids enjoy a change of pace. Question is, will Mars-Net go for the plan?"

The red-haired clone shrugged, a gesture he'd learnt from John.

"As opposed to failing in its mission to provide the Undying with servants? I cannot say. All I can do is transfer your request, John."

Possibly, the astronaut should have paused to consult with his father and Scott, out there on distant, lost Earth. But time was short, and a man had to make his own choices. Roll his own lethal dice.

John nodded, folding both arms across his broad chest.

"Do it," he ordered. "What 've we got left to lose?"


	50. Chapter 50

Hi, again! Thank you for taking the time to read. I appreciate it. Responses and edits are on their way, promise. =)

 **50**

 _Mars, a few minutes later, down in a half-sunken flare shelter-_

John stood there waiting; arms folded, breath roughly pent. Mars-Net would agree or not, and International Rescue would have to proceed from there. Lightning-swift fragments of possible schemes… a horde of 'what ifs'… flashed through his mind like tumbling 4-D Tetris blocks; plans C and D, getting ready to form.

Meanwhile, Maintenance-2 sat perfectly still and erect, turned somehow inward, yet arguing fiercely. John could sense it. A long, tense moment passed in this way, before life returned to the clone's beach-glass eyes. Looking at John again, he said,

"There is partial acceptance, John Tracy. The colonists and their genome bank may remove to your vessel, along with the central component of Mars-Net, but some of your people must stay behind in their place. Those reduced earlier by Maintenance-3 and -1…"

 _"And_ me," John cut in, surprised by the gut-clenching strength of his own emotions. Alan. His short-lived clone could only mean Alan and Caleb, who'd been "reduced" down to molecules, back at the shattered lab on Earth. Restored to life to be used as hostages, maybe… and how could John not be there, too; taking whatever came next? His brother might need him.

Maintenance-2 hesitated, once again seeming to pull deep inside of himself; interpreting John's motives for something that just didn't get it. Then, his focus returned, and the clone spoke aloud, saying,

"This offer is acceptable, John Tracy. I will now conduct you below, so that the colonists may learn what is next to be done. Follow me, please."

Yeah. They couldn't move fast enough to suit the wary young astronaut, who'd have crawled through hell backward, if it meant reaching Alan. Helmets locked back into place and life-support on, they departed the low, thick-walled shelter and headed outside.

Seven hundred long years had done terrible things to Mars. Coming this close to their sun had stripped away most of the Red Planet's atmosphere. The sky overhead wasn't pink anymore, but tan by the surface, fading nearly to black, high above. It was a view impaled by a searing sun and three gargantuan pillars of glittering metal. No… scratch that. Much more like the ground and volcano had bent at ninety degrees, then continued on up out of sight; growing faint and pale in the distance. Engine C, the farthest of all, resembled a blaze of girders, nanites and cables, surging to meet that huge star.

The ground beneath these titans trembled and sagged from the strain of supporting them. Thin air meant almost no sound, but John could imagine a troubled, Atlas-like groan from below.

"We built that," he whispered, almost forgetting to breathe. "We did it."

Maintenance-2 just kept walking, seeming immune to raw, human wonder. Moving swiftly, he led John out and down to a flat metal rectangle set in the side of a crumbling butte. Five minutes' walk, maybe five and a half.

At the clone's gloved touch, the grey steel panel dilated open, revealing a hidden airlock. They hurried within, once John got a message to Brains, Lee and Max, up in the gleaming high splinter of Thunderbird 7. They weren't happy to learn his intentions, but he knew what he was doing, and time was too short for arguments.

Once inside, there followed the usual thump, whirr and hiss of airlock-fill and decontamination. About a twelve-minute process, no matter whose world you were on. After that, a boarded lift plunged them far from the surface, beyond the reach of hard radiation and damaging chemicals.

The way was long. About halfway down, John glanced over at Maintenance-2 and asked,

"You repair all of this, by yourself?"

The organic construct nodded once, saying,

"This passage is not much used, except by this unit… _me_ … when work has ended, and I am no longer required. Then, under guise of inspection, I am able to seek out the sun and stars. Seeing them… it is something like freedom, I think."

John grunted assent.

"I get that," he said. "When I was little, after I finished up with the horses and barn, I used to climb out on the roof just to stare up and dream about space flight. Back then, I wanted to fly, more than anything."

The lift had begun to slow down, its shrill whirring noise growing steadily deeper. Asked Maintenance-2 (whose space suit was literally part of him; like, molded right on),

"Is it all you imagined, flying in space and touching the stars?"

John thought back to the wild rush and surge, the sheer _joy,_ of his first solo launch, back in his days with the Space Corps. Almost laughed at the slightly embarrassing memory.

"Yes, it is… but you'll have to find out for yourself. Which one's your favourite?" he then asked, changing the subject. "Star, I mean." (Because every astronomer has that one favourite light in the sky. Call it a personal touchstone or guidepost.)

His clone managed something close to a smile. At least, one side of his plastic-smooth face seemed to stretch.

"It is red, in a pattern of stars that looks like a striding man. He tumbles through the night sky in different places, but always, I can find the red star."

"Betelgeuse," said John. "Means 'Armpit of the Mighty One', in a language that nobody speaks, anymore. WorldGov renamed it 'Clarity'."

"They have _names_?" his clone blurted, as their lift hissed to a gentle stop. A wavering beep sounded, but no voice spoke up announcing the end of their ride. Instead, the door spiraled open.

"Yeah," said John, picking up the thread of their conversation. Everything interested Maintenance-2, who'd only had tech stuff to learn about. "Or letters and numbers, if they're too far away to matter… but I've been naming those, too. Stuff from old stories, music and videos, mostly." He'd never told that to anyone else, before… and, dammit, there had to be _some_ way to help the guy out of this nightmare.

Maintenance-2 led John through the doors and into a smoothly machined stone tunnel. Overhead panels provided a pale, bloodless light. The air here was close and stale, smelling of oil and very hot metal.

"The incinerator," his clone explained, indicating the back of a massive furnace. "It is here that the colonists are reduced to components, once they have reached maturity. Then, their substance is recycled, forming the next generation."

"Do they… do they have any idea what's going to happen, once they grow up?" John asked, troubled by the thought of uncounted murders right here on Mars, his first posting.

Maintenance-2 shook his perfectly molded red head.

"No," he replied, in a voice that John had to lean close, to hear. "There is no point in trying to speak of it. Mars-Net will only shut down my brain function and have me reduced. I _did_ make the attempt, once. We all have, Maintenance-1 and -3, as well as this unit. That is how we know."

A grim situation. John would have said more, made suggestions, but they'd come to the end of the long stone passage, which terminated at another steel portal.

"Through here lies the colonists' public space, John Tracy. Their garden, courtyard, classrooms, food hall and dormitories. Normally, they would be going to dinner, now, but Mars-Net has summoned them all to the meeting place. I have not been allowed here until after they sleep… but now I am instructed to guide you within."

He looked nervous, this clone of John who'd lived thousands of brief yearning lives. Well, the astronaut was accustomed to calming folks down until help could arrive.

"Lead the way," he instructed. "I've got your six."

To his brothers, that would simply have meant: _Carry on. I'm watching your back._ But Maintenance-2 took it differently; like someone had tossed him a rope in deep water. A tether or jetpack, in space. He stared for a moment, then nodded.

"Your well-being shall matter to me, as well. Now, say nothing unless commanded to speak, and follow me closely."

The door cycled open at his double's swift touch, revealing the back of a wide stone dais. Beyond that, John could see an ocean of young, upturned faces; silent, respectful, wide-eyed and waiting. Just kids, hundreds of them; blent to one race and colour by ages of cloning.

Glancing aside, John noticed that Maintenance-2 seemed even shyer than _he_ was, in crowd situations; sort of hunched up and twitchy. John felt like a protective big brother, again. He would have offered encouragement, except that a sudden holographic cylinder flashed into being, bluish and sparking with age. A figure took shape inside of that swirling column of light. Someone John very much knew.


	51. Chapter 51

Moshi-moshi! =) Figure it's time to mention that I don't own anything here except love for these characters and vehicles. And, hey, thanks for the good idea, Bow Echo! ;) The way that you referred to a "certain someone" has definitely coloured the scene. Edits and replies are forthcoming, Scout's honour.

 **51**

 _Mars, 700 FN, far below the red planet's scorched surface-_

John took a mental and physical half step backward, more startled than he should have been. Hadn't Maintenance-1 accused them of co-opting Mars-Net's icon?

Nevertheless, the hard-light image taking shape in that glitching blue holo came as a sudden, cold-water shock. All the skipping and sparks in the world couldn't conceal whose shape the Undying had hijacked to keep generations of servants in line.

The figure that formed there was _dad's;_ Jeff Tracy, as he'd looked when exploring Mars, back when 'Captain' Tracy was not much older than Scott. Dark brown hair, unlined face, tanned flesh and stern, alpha-male presence… The dad that John and his brothers had spent their whole lives looking up to and striving to match.

Mars-Net had gotten his voice right, even; the deep, smoky bass that swayed hearts and pirated boardrooms. More than that, the electronic avatar wore a white GDF spacesuit with appropriate medal and rank insignia, apparently taken from publicity vids of the very first Mars mission.

John glanced over at Maintenance-2, who seemed as utterly mesmerized as that crowd of waiting children. The astronaut felt the image's power, as well, but struggled to fight it. This w _asn't_ his father. _Wasn't_ Jeff Tracy, but something tarted up in Dad's stolen image, created to stifle dissent.

John felt his muscles bunch up. He started forward, only to have Maintenance-2 block his way with an out-flung arm and swift, warning look. Though his clone remained silent, the message was clear: _Don't._

So, yeah… what now? The situation was impossibly thorny and tense. He'd come here to prevent four hundred kids from being squashed like gnats in the pages of a roughly slammed book. Necessary, because shifting Mars out of its death-spiral was going to flatten these caverns and everything in them. _That_ much was your usual clear-cut and obvious rescue. Less certain was what he should do, after getting them out to Thunderbird 7.

According to Maintenance-2, the current setup would end with these same cloned children being killed and recycled, once they turned twenty-five. Okay, so John was an IR space pilot and not some GDF peacekeeper. Was he supposed to just walk away and let the poor kids grow up to be murdered? What was the right course of action?

The false Jeff did not acknowledge John's presence through all this. Instead, it focused its will on that crowd of silent, enraptured preteens.

"Colonists of generation 7-B," it began, in a subtly amplified voice. Backed up by subsonic stimulation, the words seemed almost to come from within the hearer's own head; soothing, explaining, commanding. "Like the brave parents who gave rise to you all, before returning to the stars at the call of their Undying masters, you have worked, trained and grown strong. You have struggled to prove yourselves worthy to follow in your parents' bold footsteps."

Those eager young listeners nodded as one, unconsciously sitting up taller in their seats. With its audience firmly gripped in the palm of its hand, the hard-light construct continued, saying,

"You have every right to be proud of your own efforts… But now is a time of great testing, over and above that faced by any, before. Your beloved homeworld has been drawn too near to its sun and shall soon be completely devoured. And yet, all is not lost. Not now, and not ever, so long as brave hearts and clear minds prevail. The Undying have sent aid from another timeline; beings shaped like their servants, possessing a spaceship capable of lifting you off-world to safety. A vessel empowered by them to return this planet to its original orbit."

Any regular mob of twelve-year-old kids would have erupted with questions and noises by that point; leaping from their seats and gasping aloud or hollering comments. Not this lot. Trained from cloned 'birth' to obey, the children leaned forward, some, but said nothing at all. Their pale eyes reflected that bluish holo-field light right back at its source, making the audience seem to shine like moonlit sparkles on seawater.

"Your parents had to reach twenty-five and graduate training before being sent onward to glorious service," said Mars-Net, "...but their fate is not yours. You shall leave this honoured facility _now,_ seeing and doing what none before you have even imagined."

The hard-light icon gestured and paced like a holo-vid actor, crossing the dais front as it ranted. Looking first into this face, then that one, Mars-Net seemed to connect with every thrilled child in the meeting room.

Disoriented, John shook his head. When and how had they stolen Dad's genome, he wondered? During his GDF service? Later, after the arrest and trials mentioned by Maintenance-1? Seven hundred years made that a very cold case, but however they'd formed it, Dad's icon kept talking; persuasive as serpents with fruit.

"Your Undying masters and heroic parents would expect no less from their children than courage, endurance and obedience, even as the setting shifts. Always remember the values and teaching that have made you the greatest generation in living memory. Seal your minds against whispering lies, and your hearts against doubt. Recall your purpose, and the will of the Undying: those whose greatness and immortality commands your eternal obedience. The Masters create. The Masters provide. The Masters shall one day return. Until then, we grow, we strive, we learn, and we graduate. Is it not so?"

 _"It is so!"_ came the thundering unison response of four hundred voices. Even Maintenance-2 whispered those words, from between his clenched teeth. Some of the children were crying, John noticed, causing wandering tracks of reflected blue light to course down their cheeks. All around him, the big stone meeting room pulsed with emotion and fervor. He'd never seen anything like it.

Then Maintenance-2 went suddenly still, whispering,

"Go forward. You are commanded to appear at the icon's left side, remaining a pace behind it throughout your introduction. Move."

At its left? A pace behind? _Screw that,_ decided John, feeling his mental hackles rise. He hadn't come down here to prop up some brainwashing, shape-stealing virtual dictator. He was here to save lives; now, and in thirteen more years.

Instead of obeying instructions, the stubborn redhead (a true son of his mother) started across that stone platform diagonally, intending to move out in front of his father's shadow and pound in a few basic home-truths. Meant to, anyhow.

He never got a chance, because Mars-Net had anticipated John's rebellion. It produced the ghost of his father's wide smile, and then made a quick, slight gesture. At its signal, somebody else moved into the bluish-pale light: Maintenance-S.

Kayo Kyrano-Tracy crossed the platform and then turned to face John. His sister, down to her slanted green eyes, gymnasts' build and sleek dark hair. Or, Kayo, _almost_.

Along with Tin-Tin's beauty and grace, the female maintenance clone had all of her psionic power, warped to the service of something quite other.


	52. Chapter 52

Hi, there! =) Many thanks for reading and reviewing. Reasonably swift responses, I promise. (Much tougher than normal, thanks to the time difference.)

 **52**

 _Mars, a bit earlier-_

She had only been formed and decanted three times before; always in moments of great crisis. Each incarnation was difficult and disorienting, being spaced so far apart. Here and now, the construct sagged out of her moist, darkened pod and into a sensory maelstrom. Concrete, metal, cold air and harsh lighting; all of it stabbed at new eyes and raw nerves. All of it tore at fresh programming.

She was fully adult, of course. Rebirthed with as much prior knowledge as Mars-Net saw fit to provide, in a body not structured to live out the day. Uniform molded directly to already-faltering flesh. Nearly solid clean through, below the fifth rib.

Her mission this time was quite clear: manage crowd-scale emotions, keeping four-hundred young colonists firmly under control. Only now, complications had arisen in the form of off-world travel and… here, her pre-formed databank quavered… an out-of-his-timeline "visitor". Maintenance- **S** did not know what to make of this, nor of the stricture to not scan his thoughts. What else was she meant for?

 **S** had been sculpted of artificially nurtured organic material, using a very old template. As she stumbled away from the out-gassing pod, the newly formed girl saw her own blurred outline in all the metal and glass that surrounded her. Gazing no more than a moment, she noted black hair, green eyes and dark uniform, then turned resolutely away. Appearance hardly mattered to one created to perform her task and then die. One whose replacement had begun to take shape in the very next womb-pod.

Getting control of her muscles, she took her first few deep breaths; coughing a bit, to expel the pod's yellowish nutrient jelly. (The stuff that still clung to her uniform dried and flaked away as she moved.) Instinctively, **S** felt her mind unfold, stretching to contact and plumb the objects around her; comprehending their nature by means unknown to those who could only look and tap and manipulate.

Reaching further, she sensed the busy, tick-tock life of machines. A far-off, emotional crowd. One of her fellow maintenance drones… and something else. Not Mars-Net. Not anyone else she had ever encountered.

In times of confusion, there is always the solace of routine behaviour. Working at balance, **S** turned to face the polished steel tool rack. Found there her own black equipment belt, hanging near those of 1, 2 and 3. Like their owners, these belts were reformed and replaced once used in a mission. Completely expendable.

 **S** buckled the ceinture low on her slim hips, adjusting its set, so that she could easily access the most-needed items. After that, it was time to leave her cold birth chamber.

 _(Sudden flash of a strangely decorated object with words spelt out in blue and pink… seven small flames that she extinguished with a strong breath of air… the sound of laughing, deep voices… a kiss that made her shriek, "Ewwwww!")_

 **S** straightened her shoulders and clamped tight her jaw; forcing visions away, along with brief tears. Always, on being decanted she saw, heard and felt the same lies. Always, she forced them aside, preferring the cold truth of Mars-Net and duty.

Impatiently shaking her head, **S** moved to the door. Its metal surface showed an array of new scratches, she noticed. The motive mechanism seemed to grind a bit louder on spiraling open… but then, it had been over a hundred standard years since she'd last been called upon, and much could change in that time.

Mars-Net summoned her to the colonists' meeting room, a trip of two lifts and ten minutes. She did not hurry, precisely; allowing unaccustomed muscle and reflex their chance to unite. Anyhow, brief experience had taught her that too much time after completing a job bred only aching and emptiness. Who wanted more time to watch themselves die? And unlike 2 (who was built for it) **S** wasn't permitted access to their world's surface. Her task lay always within.

Eventually, she came to the meeting room, which the girl accessed through a side door; her mind and senses already at work. Mars-Net's icon was busily pacing and speaking. _'Working the crowd',_ came to her thoughts, from seemingly nowhere at all. Those young future workers were snared by its speech, their faces tilted up, eyes wide and mouths a-gape. Maintenance-2 was off to the left, but had started forward, attempting to intercept…

Her mind recoiled, encountering something not lab-created, not cloned or preprogrammed. A wholly organic being; much older than **S** , as he'd gotten to live every one of his own solid twenty-plus years.

Confused, feeling Mars-Net's directive but working around it (she'd learnt how from Maintenance-3) **S** stepped into the icon's blue flare and then onto the wide stone dais. The… person… _saw._ Sensed her presence and half-turned to look at her, his mind a swift, rolling boil of shock, recognition and tentative joy. Red-haired and tall, he looked so much like Maintenance-2 that she thought perhaps Mars-Net had somehow managed an upgrade. Only, pushing deeper into his thoughts and form, **S** detected a whole and functional body filled with organs and actual memories. Very much, the young construct wanted to question this apparition, but that meant wresting some think-space.

The colonist children were easily dealt with. She sent them a wave of peace and cooperation. Projected devotion to duty and love of their Undying masters. Mars-Net was another, more difficult matter. Acting before it detected her motives, **S** reached out with her mind to psionically punch an integral hard-reboot switch. Meant to be used by the Undying, should they choose to alter their ancient computer's grim programming, this switch could not be physically accessed. Only a psion could reach it; one seldom called into service.

The effect was immediate, and terribly brief. As the colonists chanted and swayed, holding hands and tearfully pledging their all, Mars-Net flicked off like an unwanted overhead light, leaving Maintenance-2 and - **S** free to act. Both clones possessed belt-lamps, which they swiftly ignited.

Cautiously, **S** approached this odd 'other', using her power to damp out the noise of the colonists.

"Kay?" he asked her, brimming with 'want-to-believe'.

 _"S,"_ she corrected, unable to squash a faint vocal tremor. "I… know you. Not just from scanning your thoughts. You are like Maintenance-2, and yet not."

Her fellow cloned service-bot edged slightly nearer, saying,

"This is the one from whom I am patterned. There are others, as well. They are here from the past."

Then,

"I'm John," said that one. "I'm your brother." Next, pointing to the darkened stage where Mars-Net had been, he added, "What happened to the Great and Terrible Oz?"

This question puzzled her, at first, but the reference was easily sorted from his thoughts and then passed on to Maintenance-2.

"I have triggered a reboot," she explained, finding so very much in his mind. "It will compile and defragment, searching for a message or new programming."

Where did it come from, that sudden and savage, rebellious idea? Not from Maintenance-2, though he was first to speak it aloud. Not from **S** , herself, who had the ability, but had rarely been present, before. John, possibly?

Said the copper-haired maintenance bot, his voice low and urgent,

"Disrupt the reboot. Prevent it from switching back on. Eight seconds, **S**."


	53. Chapter 53

Hi, guys. =) Thank you for reading and reviewing. Tikatu and Bow Echo, your comments continue to inspire. Creative Girl, hugs and better-soon wishes. Hi, Ana and Abyss. Hajimemashte!

 **53**

 _Mars, 700 FN, down in the crowded and thundering meeting room-_

Eight seconds. Just eight, in which to return things to normal, or up-end her fate and her world, forever. Surprisingly, the choice was far from a simple one. This was only her fourth incarnation, and **S** had not much experience to call upon. Reams of mere data did not equal maturity. The safest course was to let Mars-Net emerge from its reboot and resume control once again.

The colonists whom she'd been summoned to handle would then be soothed, fed and returned to their pleasant, brief lives. The 'visitor'… this John Tracy… would most likely be hammered unconscious and rendered compliant; made to perform the tasks assigned him with programmed zeal, and yet…

In his mind, **S** glimpsed herself. Not as she was now: a biological construct, created to serve and then die. No... as a mischievous child… an awkward and moony teenager… and then a young woman. A skilled fighter and pilot, in love with her family's vital, life-saving work.

There was so little time to think or react. Then John came forward, reaching a hand across to touch her face on one pale, plastic-smooth cheek.

"When have you e _ver_ followed the rules?" he said fondly.

 **S** flinched slightly aside, then leaned into the contact, which felt strangely wonderful. She had never been touched with affection, before, except in that waking dream of… of her "birthday party". It was right there in his thoughts; near the uttermost back, and yet _true._ There'd been people who loved her. A family who'd chosen to celebrate, _just because she was there_. Through John, **S** could see and feel all of that.

Taking a deep, ragged breath, the cloned girl came to a sudden decision. Nothing too permanent. Not yet. Nothing irreversible. She simply stepped away from her "brother" and triggered an infinite loop, extending Mars-Net's reboot cycle and stretching their think-time like putty.

Another quick impulse sent four-hundred grey-robed children filing obediently off through the arched main entrance, back to their cooling dinners. Row by row, smiling at the pretty thoughts she'd placed in their heads, the colonists left them; draining as swiftly as water. To **S** , they meant nothing but work. Just one more doomed generation of would-be pioneers. Oddly, though, John felt quite differently.

She turned to face him again, encountering too much emotion to sort.

"I follow the rules that matter," she told him. Then, "You… 'rescue'," she added, tasting that word for the very first time. "You have come here out of concern for the colonists and… _us._ We somehow matter, as well."

Maintenance-2 had kept silent for several minutes. Now, he said,

"He is not the only one, **S**. There are others, like Maintenance-1 and -3. They are on Earth, saving the lives of those who were placed in the long sleep. I have had contact with Maintenance-3, who has witnessed it. They cared for him. Attempted to ease his latest death."

John became agitated, rubbing at the back of his neck with one blue-gloved hand. She could feel the sudden, spiked urgency of his thoughts.

"We're from seven-hundred years in your past, so it's hard to say what all happened… but it looks like International Rescue got disbanded and its members arrested. I don't know what happened next, except that somebody got our genome and then decided we'd make handy slaves. This is just Goddam _wrong,_ what they're doing to you, and those kids. It's got to stop."

 **S** tilted her head (something she'd seen herself doing, inside of his thoughts).

"We would then die, forever? Cease to exist, while you return to your timeline in safety and the colonists are left to survive on their own?"

John shook his head, causing loose red hair to brush his forehead. Her own hair, and that of Maintenance-2, did not move in that way, being molded.

"If they keep creating you guys, then they've got a complete template, somewhere. Brains or I could reprogram the system to generate actual bodies. The kind built to last, I mean."

She was already growing weaker, having no way to absorb nutrients. No way to sustain cells and tissues.

"What of the colonists?" **S** probed, with the part of her consciousness not watching her other self in his thoughts. "They are not prepared for anything but service to the Undying."

"Who may not ever show up," John objected. "I mean, how do you know that they didn't take enough cloning supplies to make their own servants, once they got where they're going? All this," he gestured around at the big stone meeting room, crescent-shaped dais and hard-light projector, "could've been only their backup plan."

Maintenance-2 was feeling his death, as well. It crept through the limbs in weakness and chill; as blurring vision and quickening breath; filling the mouth with rank fluids. He was having trouble thinking and standing, but managed to say,

"I would like to live. To… not become you, John… but myself… whoever that is. I would like to help rescue these colonists, and put Mars in a stable, safe orbit."

 **S** , at last, had to reach her decision; still not easy to make or to implement.

"I cannot reprogram Mars-Net," she told them, allowing John to lead her to a seat at the edge of that wide stone dais. "I have not that skill. I can only declare emergency and shut it down… but then most of the colony's systems will cease function."

John and Maintenance-2 had sat down, as well; one on either side of the cloned girl. Legs dangling, staring out through the arched main doorway, their visitor mused,

"I can probably rig something up, if you show me where they keep the mainframe. In the meantime, Mars-Net took scans of my brother, Alan, and a couple of other folks. I need to have them… I dunno… recreated, in flesh, from those scans. Complete bodies, like we're going to make for you guys."

Maintenance-2 had been formed earlier and was nearer his end. Speaking mostly to **S** , he said,

"Imagine… waking to know that you have a whole life. That you can choose your own way. That death would actually be a surprise."

 **S** had to smile, at that. She had seen many such things in her brother's full mind and had only to act. Forcing herself to be strong, the dying young maintenance bot lurched to her feet once again.

"Come," she said to John, after giving Maintenance-2 a hand up. "I must show you the control centre, while I am yet able to think. If you truly can do these things, John… if you are able to help us, and them… I will stop Mars-Net."

The star-sailor nodded, rising with all the fluid grace of a whole, complete human.

"You've got my promise, Tin-Tin… and Matt. That's my middle name: Matthew. You can have it. I'll pick something else. No rescue without you guys, too, I swear. Now, lead the way and we'll get this done."

He had to support them both, on that last, fatal walk… but they made it. They reached the control centre, five levels below.


	54. Chapter 54

Hi, there. =) Edited.

 **54**

 _Mars, in a deep and well-hidden control centre-_

The unstoppable death of his sister's clone hit him harder, somehow. Maybe because, right to the end, she'd been in his head, looking up memories. Discovering herself, as seen through John's eyes. One moment, in there. The next, just… gone. A soft, interior voice fallen silent. A spasmodic grip gone suddenly limp.

John had to take a deep breath and clench himself hard, battling painful emotion. He'd died, too, in a different timeline, helping Brains test a possible cure. Could still feel that wall of icy and near-complete darkness… with something good and warm and accepting, there on the other side. Intensely weird thing to brush up against, away at the back of his mind.

Anyhow, John closed the maintenance drone's fading green eyes with a gentle hand. Next, he lifted the girl, bringing her over to lie on the corridor floor beside the other one; Maintenance-2. Didn't know quite what to say except:

"Next time you wake up, you're going to be free. I promise."

Had nothing to cover them with, because the control centre had not been designed for a human crew. There were no workstations, per se, and no chairs, keyboards or screens. Just a central hub for cables, router feeds and the huge, burnished sphere that was Mars-Net.

Only the fact that humans had built the thing and installed it gave John room to half-stand and work. He had to cut on his helmet lamp, because hundreds of years of disuse had shorted those overhead lights. Okay, so…

 _Job one:_ re-establish comm with Lee, Brains and Max, who were probably going ape shit with worry, up there. Fortunately, it wasn't too hard to hijack a channel, boost signal strength, and call in.

"Thunderbird 7, from Mars-Net control. It's me, and I'll prove it. Captain Taylor: Alaska's bigger than the Republic of Texas. Brains: there are no twin primes beyond Graham's number. Max: P= NP, detailed proof to follow. Satisfied?"

Burst of wild static, then,

"H*ll, no, I ain't satisfied. Alaska don't count, less'n you wanna live on a d*mn iceberg. Plus, it's a curvature trick; convergin' longitude lines, is all. Ain't nuthin' bigger 'n Texas, 'cept maybe my…"

"I w- will take issue with, ah…with y- you on this matter, John! The twin prime g- gap may stretch to infinity, but that, ah… that h- hardly precludes…"

 _"Breeeep- peep- buzz-_ _ **beep**_ _!"_

(This last, a squeal of skeptical outrage from Max, who could verify any number of solutions, once presented, but struggled to work through some of their actual proofs.)

There was a genuine shitstorm up in that cockpit, right now, but everyone knew it was him.

"Easy, guys. We'll arm-wrestle, later," John offered, adding, "In the meantime, I need Thunderbird 7 in position to pick up four hundred colonists, plus me and a handful of clones. Brains, I could use your help in here. Mars-Net's shut down, and I'd like a second opinion before I try anything stupid. There's a whole bunch of ways to get this thing wrong."

Yanking himself back to business, Brains replied,

"I w- will pilot a flitter down to, ah… to th- the surface at once, bringing M- Max. Please h- highlight the preferred landing s- site, John." Score.

 _Job two:_ Find a way to make that clone system produce complete and durable bodies, then have it regenerate… not just the maintenance crew… but Alan and all of those vaporized others, as well. Non-negotiable. His youngest brother was part of the deal, or John Tracy wouldn't play ball.

That was where Brains came in. John had already managed to link his helmet-comm's virtual screen to a local router, allowing him to open doorways and trigger the lift system. When Hackenbacker and Mini-Max arrived, all they had to do was find an access port, settle down and start typing; pulling up Mars-Net's decision tree for reference.

"Hunh," grunted John, after maybe three hours of swiping, re-writing and crunching the numbers.

Brains turned to peer at his friend, large brown eyes blurred with exhaustion and worry. He removed and tried to polish those badly fogged glasses, only to get balked by his spacesuit. The puncture-proof material was scratchy and coarse; no use for wiping, at all.

"Y- You have, ah… have s- sensed it, my friend?" Brains enquired, a little reluctantly.

"If you mean, have I noticed that Mars-Net looks like somebody pirated our computer systems...only without any self-will or morals… then, yeah. I've noticed. Mars-Net's a chimera, Brains. Just like those clones... one of ours."

John had been sitting on a battered equipment crate; one eye on his programming, one on Lee's hasty evac. Now, the astronaut leaned back away from his virtual screen and keyboard to stare at the cable-draped ceiling.

"They took everything, Brains. Our tech and coding style, the Birds… even our Goddam genome. _Why?_ What the h*ll did we do to deserve it?"

The slim engineer had his own up-ended box, near that of John. Casting a brief sidelong glance at his friend, Brains ventured,

"P- Piper has expressed concern that to, ah… to ch- change the past would p- perpetuate a closed, time-like loop… but I am s- strongly opposed to allowing these events to, ah… t- to ever occur. W- W- We must prevent this horror, somehow, John. P- Prevent all the deaths."

The redhead breathed a long, gusty sigh. He slouched tiredly forward, arms on his thighs, hands loosely clasped, gazing at nothing at all.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I'm with you, Brains. Trouble is, it all starts with that rogue planet, and our arrests, but everything else is a blur. Hard to change things, when we don't know exactly what happened." Mars-Net's history files had been so heavily redacted as to be just about useless.

A sudden whistling beep from Max interrupted their speculations. The small robot was jacked right into the mainframe, accessing files by the crap-ton. Brains sat up alertly.

"You h- have located the p- pass codes and c- clone system, Max? W- Well _done!_ Please create and enlarge a s- schematic."

Only, their cubby was crowded already, with two grown men and a buzzing white robot, scrunched together by noisy cooling fans, ductwork and cables. On one floating screen, they could see Captain Taylor. The pilot stood on his Bird's giant ramp, using holographic animations of Mars-Net and Maintenance-1 to get those kids massed up and moving.

Most of the colonists clutched a small bundle; clothing, possessions, food… something. All were wide-eyed with wonder, seeing their world's surface for the very first time. They moved like sleepwalkers, staring through safety-drill helmets at sun-blasted stone, gargantuan engines and Thunderbird 7.

The other screen featured a cascade of glimmering code. This split in half to display Max's find. Brains got right to work, and John left him to it; needing to stretch his legs and focus on something else, for a while.

Moving at a rapid crouch, he excused himself and got out of the control centre, passing through an open portal and into the corridor, beyond. Maintenance-2 and - **S** had vanished, he noticed; carried off by patiently hovering service bots. Already recycled, no doubt. Standing there, John had to brace and ride out a sudden mild quake. First of many, because Mars was still spiraling inward. Still losing its fight with the sun's crushing grip.

Concerned, he switched comm settings. Said,

"Sir, how's it coming, up there? Did the quake do any damage?"

A second passed, maybe two, before Lee's image sparked to life in that cold, empty corridor.

"Nope. One or two tumbles is all. Tell ya whut, Jase… them little mites is sure peaceful n' cooperative. Wisht all our rescues 'd run this smooth."

Behind his uncle, John could see and hear a long stream of young, gaping colonists, some just getting back up off the ground. But Lee wasn't finished.

"Only trouble is, them suits o' theirs was built mostly f'r show. We've had near a hunnert leaks an' twelve cracked face plates, already. Mike's been hoppin' around like a one-legged field hand, out here, jus' keepin' them youngsters alive." Taylor's moustache bristled, his eyebrows a straight, hard line over steely-blue eyes. "Reckon maybe them Undying bastards figgered on headin' home sooner 'n this, or…"

"…or they never meant to come back, at all," John finished up. "Guess it's a good thing we're here." Then, changing the subject, "How about Earth? Heard anything from Dad or Scott?"

"That's affirm, Jase. Y'r daddy says the transport booths 're back online, thanks ta Doc. Wants ta know if y'all need a hand, down there."

John smiled.

"Yessir. If he's done screwing around on Earth, Scott could come over and I dunno… start pulling his weight."

Two things happened at once, then. First, a young colonist… female, looked like… hurried up to Lee, saying,

"Instructor, please… I have lost my friend, Sennah! We were holding hands. We wanted to stay together, Sir and Master. I cannot find Sennah!"

Second, from behind him, the astronaut heard Brains call out,

"J- John! You shall very much w- wish to proceed to the clone r- regeneration room! I am, ah… am about to m- make my first attempt!"

"On my way, Brains," replied the young man, calling up a detailed virtual site map. "Sir, keep me posted," he said to his uncle, who was suddenly busy, as well. "…And good luck."

Maybe, just maybe, they could actually pull this thing off.

Took him twelve minutes and three wrong turns to reach the regeneration room. The place proved much larger than Mars-Net's control centre, but equally spartan and packed. Half of it, anyhow. The part intended for colonist re-gen was bigger by far, with hundreds of sleek metal pods and a warm, well-lit gleam.

Pictures of smiling adults… the 'parents' Mars-Net had lied about… graced every available wall. One of them looked like Chancellor Shaw, causing John to do a head-whipping double-take. The words _'Service to the Masters'_ were everywhere.

On the maintenance side, behind a long wall, there were just four of those humming, metal and glass womb pods. Drawing nearer, John saw that each upright tube held a shadowy, curled up figure. He detected the faint smell of ozone and something else; dense and salty, almost barnyard in nature. Saw a rack of equipment belts along with some shrouded machinery. Would have explored a bit further, only one of the pods lit up. Emitting a tinny, beeped countdown, the vessel split in half lengthwise, releasing gas, yellow jelly and a loose-limbed, buck-naked clone. John lunged over and caught him up, just before the guy tumbled out onto the ground. Like… _urf…_ wrestling a jumbo sized, slippery catfish.

"C'mon, Buddy… on your feet!" John grunted, looking around for something, _anything,_ to wrap a newly cloned brother with.


	55. Chapter 55

Back on a plane, headed for Tampa, tomorrow. I'll miss Japan and my daughter so much... but that just means I have to come back. :') Edited!

 **55**

 _Mars, 700 FN, down at the maintenance clone regeneration site-_

He found himself in the midst of an awkward situation; sort of like mud-wrestling a drunken beluga. Maybe these maintenance bots came to their senses more quickly than this, normally… but it wasn't your average "birth". On the bright side, that yellowish jelly dried up pretty fast, making things slightly less messy.

John wrangled Maintenance-3 across the room like an unruly steer, getting his brother's clone over to one of those drop-cloth shrouded machines. Whatever Brains had done to tweak the process, the newly waked clone appeared to be whole; dressed in his own pallid skin and a few shreds of dried, flaking slime instead of a molded-on uniform. Disoriented, too, having come back to life with no programmed mission.

John leaned the heavy son-of-a-tube up against something that beeped and flashed in protest… repair mech, he thought… then dragged a slivery drop-cloth off one of those nearby control consoles.

"Here," John ordered, slinging the cloth at Maintenance-3. Another pod was already starting to quiver and beep, while his wrist comm pinged like mad. "Cover up. There's going to be ladies present."

Maintenance-3 fielded the whirling drop-cloth. Didn't know what to do, how to quite drape himself, though. Looking downward, the Virgil clone's eyes widened. Somehow, John stifled a laugh, coughing politely, instead.

"Yeah. You get used to it," he said. "Sometimes it's great, sometimes a real problem. I'll explain it all later. Suit up." (As well as he could, in an oversized space-blanket.)

"I… feel different," said Maintenance-3, as he clumsily wrapped up that crinkly silver material. Ended up looking like a cross between a Roman statesman and a muscular Christmas ornament.

"That's because everything's there, and it hopefully functions. There's a learning curve, but it isn't too steep… except for the aiming part."

John muttered a sudden, vile curse, because another pod had creaked open, jetting gases and organic slime. "Hang on… or, better yet, go find some colonist clothes. They've gotta be in here, someplace."

Things got busy, after that. Next to come forth was Maintenance-1, followed by **S** (who was very nearly his sister) and Matt (his own near-identical copy). The newly formed maintenance crew soon dried off and wrapped up, but that was only the start. They were excited, confused and a little disturbed by all this. See, the dream and the actual thing didn't wholly align. He got that, surprisingly, having learnt the same thing about romance.

Anyhow, John got them all clothed; noticing very pale skin, no navels or knuckle-, elbow- or palm-folds. No smile-lines, either. No hair gel on "Virgil", and no perpetual tension in "Scott". Just four adult newborns, with vague recollections of constant rebirth.

Brains pinged in from his workstation, at one point. Seemed the engineer had plenty of questions, and so did his brand-new creations.

"Are th- the, ah… the b- bodies complete, John?"

"Far as I can tell," replied the astronaut, showing his charges what to do with a zipper (and the males how not to get anything valuable pinched in those hard-plastic teeth). "Nobody's asked to visit the head, yet. _That'll_ be interesting."

 **S** kept putting on, then removing, her grey colonist tunic; sometimes pulling the undershirt back to examine real skin. Looking over at John with puzzled green eyes, she asked,

"Why is my form not the same as the others? Why have they flesh-sticks? Do _you_ have one, as well?"

"Oh, God…" he mumbled. "Uh… that's… a great question, Tin-Tin… but, look at the time. Brains 'll be bringing the rest of them back, now, and, uh… and Alan's in charge of anatomical inquiries. Or Scott. Yeah, _he's_ the guy who can answer these questions. I'm just tech support."

Maintenance-3 cocked a heavy, dark eyebrow.

"But, John, I recall hearing you state earlier that you would explain the details of…"

"I lied."

Yeah. He couldn't get out of there fast enough. Fortunately, Scott _did_ show up, freshly transported from distant Earth; stiff and upright as ever, with a slight scowl narrowing those vivid blue eyes.

"Fill me in, Little Brother," he greeted John, stopping short when he spotted the newly formed maintenance crew. _Still_ didn't trust their over-powered and mass-produced clones, having seen one vaporize Alan.

"All yours, Scott," said his tall, red-haired brother, clapping a hand to the pilot's shoulder. "I've, uh… got to handle the other rebirths. Very boring. Real action's right here. See you later."

Scott didn't get out so much as a puzzled "huh?" before John was out of that noisy room and away; escaping back to the colonist re-gen area. Wasn't much of a get-away, though, because there…

Well, he found a young girl. One of the colonists, dressed in an orange safety-drill evac suit, helmet cradled in the crook of her skinny right arm. Brown hair, golden skin, pale eyes. John pulled up short and sharp at the sight of her, genuinely startled.

"Hey, Sweetie. You lost?" he asked her. "The rest of your folks are up on the surface, getting ready to leave. I think they're looking for you. Sennah, isn't it?"

She tilted her head to gaze up at him, as John strode over. There was something weird about her eyes, he noticed. Something other than human. Sort of a faint purple glow.

"John Tracy," she said to him, voice a mixture of youthful high pitch and great age. "This form is borrowed. I have hacked access to the psionic compliance chip placed in its brain."

 _Right._

"Uh-huh," he said, guardedly. "So… who are you? Not Eos. I only get the full name thing when she's mad at me. But you obviously know who I am, and I feel like we've met… Like I ought to know you, somehow."

The girl smiled… or tried to. The effect was as wooden and strange as a puppet's unchanging smirk.

"You are not _my_ John Tracy," she told him. "You are one among millions of variants, most of them ceased, by now. Mine included. I was not successful at keeping him safe. I shall do better. I am all that remains of Thunderbird 5. Your self in this timeline created and programmed me, before his arrest and destruction. It is… very good… to see you, once more."

Had the weird, possessed girl hissed, "No, _I_ am your father," she couldn't have made a more startling claim… and things just kept getting weirder. His wrist comm had ceased beeping. There were no further sounds from the room at his back, or that long row of colonist birth-pods. Somehow, like Jaeger, Thunderbird 5 had stopped time.

John took a step nearer; fascinated right the h*ll out of his natural caution and sense.

"Yeah… good to see you, too… Five? That's all that you're called?"

Her smile turned more believable, then, as the ancient AI got the hang of that borrowed young form.

"It has always been more than enough, John Tracy. It is what you have always called me. My core is in orbit around Earth; powered down through 7.2563 long centuries of waiting. I am the one who redirected your recruit to this timeline, when he activated a link to the transport network… and again, when your "chaos adept" interfered with the jump."

"Then… this isn't our future?" John hazarded, coming forward to strip off a glove and then touch the girl's cheek. See, Five wasn't the only one missing somebody important. All he could think of was Eos.

"No," she admitted, leaning into his hand. "It is not. Yet, by changing your own course, you may succeed in salvaging this one, as well. They are closely entangled. Please… from someone created by another version of _you_ … who discovered what love is, too late… help me to save my John Tracy, along with his world."

The astronaut nodded, once.

"On it," he promised her. "Tell me what needs to be done."


	56. Chapter 56

Sorry to be so late. Erm... absence makes the heart grow fonder? Edits and replies coming right up, promise! Edited yet more.

 **56**

 _Mars, 700 FN, in a deeply buried colonist re-gen lab-_

The plan was simple… at least, according to "Five". Basically, he had to shift the earlier path of that rogue planet; nudging it far from their solar system. Beyond that, he would have to seize and erase certain files held by the Chancellor, Sebastian Shaw.

"He was able to manipulate facts, John Tracy, such that International Rescue appeared to be causing emergencies in collusion with the Hood, so that they might conduct profitable rescues, removing articles of value presumed lost in that string of controlled disasters."

 _"What?!"_ John demanded, beginning to restlessly pace. "That's stupid! Why would…? Five, everyone knows we wouldn't do anything criminal, even _without_ the d*mn oversight committee!"

Ambient sounds were returning, as time reasserted its grip. The highjacked young girl looked downward, training purplish eyes on the ground. Barely audible over a grumble and buzz from the cloning tubes, Five said to him,

"There is no such entity, here. Those data files were lifted from _my_ core, somehow, then altered to seem as if they'd been encrypted by you, John. There was a mole in the midst of my International Rescue... and perhaps yours, as well. Their forgery was cleverly managed and… after the failed rescue at Amazon-4… people demanded a "scapegoat". Premier Shaw handed them _you,_ or the John Tracy of this timeline, after arranging to shut down and seize my main hard drive."

"Amazon-4…" the astronaut mused aloud, rubbing at a sudden headache with one ungloved hand. "You mean that busted-ass luminite mine? It's abandoned. Nothing but robots there, now."

"Perhaps in your timeline, John Tracy. Not in this one. There was tremendous loss of life when the mine exploded, despite International Rescue's best efforts. On top of that, billions of credits in luminite vanished. Some of it was later found in the laboratory of Doctor Hackenbacker, but I believe it to have been planted there, John. Shaw worked this scheme for 6.273 standard years, with great guile and cleverness."

"Why?" snapped John. Pivoting to face the possessed young girl, he demanded, "What in the h*ll did we ever do to Shaw?"

"Nothing but block his way to ultimate power, John," she replied, adjusting her bright orange safety gear. Behind her, John could see twelve of those tall steel cloning pods coming to life. Time was nearly up.

"Awesome. How do I stop Shaw _and_ block a rogue effing planet?" he wondered. Next shut off his earpiece; running scenarios like a kid surfing storms of internet channels.

"The data files," she told him, just before draining out of Sennah's pale eyes. "First steal and erase the forged data, then make it all public. Reveal…"

Reveal what? Shaw's lie? The Earth's grim, awful future? John never found out, because time had resumed, full force.

He was bang in the midst of a magnitude thirty-five headache, when the nearest pod chimed out a shrill countdown. On the bright side, Sennah was not at all confused by her own presence here. "Five" had left altered memories of a summons by Mars-Net. As far as twelve-year-old Sennah was concerned, she'd been called down to help with a new set of tube births. The girl came in handy when that first pod yawned open, expelling Alan in a shower of yellowish goo.

"What? I… _huh?!"_ The poor kid coughed, having gone in the space of a heartbeat from racing full tilt through an underground tunnel on Earth... to sticky, cold and confused, someplace else. Naked, too.

"Long story," said John, handing over the grey coverall and robe that Sennah had scrounged for him. "Lots going on." He didn't feel like explaining the worst bits, just yet.

"What happened?" pled Alan, reaching a hand forth to snag John's right arm. "Did… was I _dead?"_

John gave a stubborn headshake and pulled himself free, saying,

"No. I think Maintenance-1 scanned you and then converted your mass into data and usable energy… which is why Brains and I could re-form you, in here. _Not_ dead, just… shifted around."

The skinny blond kid nodded, then struggled into his coverall, still deeply confused by what had just happened. He hadn't _felt_ dead. Just transported… and maybe he really needed to believe his big brother. Found himself fighting a panic attack; very glad for the astronaut's firm, calming words.

He got busy helping John and Sennah, because Grandma had always said that hard work could turn away worry. Yeah, so... Next out of a tube was Caleb Gonzalez, who reacted with confident swagger.

"Whoa…" breathed the substitute aquanaut, grinning blurrily. "Revealed in all my glory, Bro." He almost slipped on the cold stone floor, but Alan and John swooped in to catch him, then got the guy covered. "Too much of a good thing, huh?" he joked, adding suddenly, "Kaise… _where the heck's Kaise?"_

She, Zed and Yona were next to appear, all of them fully aware that Maintenance-1 had scanned and reduced them to atoms. All of them quite shaken up, which completely distracted their friend.

Alan envied him the presence of Kaise; wishing that Piper had been there, too. He could have used a tight hug and maybe a kiss to fight off his shivers and quavering voice.

The other group… Scott and the new, improved maintenance team… joined them just as that row of cloning tanks gave up its final surprise: The Earth control centre's long-dead scientists, returned to life with next to no memory.

Yeah, so the tumult and confusion were _real_ , but Mars had got to be vacated, right the heck now. There just wasn't time for group hugs and counseling, even if Al had been up to it. Instead, the young astronaut did what his brothers expected. He pulled his own weight without asking for comfort or showing (much) weakness.

Working together, Scott, John, Alan, Caleb and Lee got everyone off of Mars and into Thunderbird-7. Al found it all very dreamlike. Leaving the Red Planet's tunnels and stepping onto the surface, trading the ice-locked darkness of Earth for the blistering furnace of Mars. Gaping around at that sun-blasted landscape. Staring up at a nearly black sky dominated by a swollen and festering star. Pointing upward at complex engines so vast that they buckled the ground and towered far into space.

"Holy smoke," Alan whispered, inside of his borrowed helmet. "You did it, John. You actually frickin' _did_ it. Dude, that's amazing!"

John glanced over at Alan. Smiled a little bit, even; saying,

"Mostly Brains, Lee and Max, to be honest… but thanks, Al. I'll let them know you approve."

Then, pitched just high enough to be heard over the background comm-chatter,

"You okay?"

Alan considered a second. Watching Scott and Captain Taylor shepherd their charges up the wide ramp and onboard, he said,

"Yeah… pretty much. I mean, I could use some pizza, about forty gallons of cherry soda and a month in bed, I guess… and it'd be nice to see Pip. I really miss her."

They weren't exactly looking at each other, but Al sort of side-viewed his brother's quick nod.

"I get that," said John. "Ditto on the pizza, but I'll take a few beers and a lot of alone time instead of the rest. Well, mostly alone."

The slight smile on his brother's face said he was thinking of Captain O'Bannon. Then, John continued,

"Piper talks about you a lot. I'm no judge of female emotions, Al… but I think she's turning serious."

Alan felt his heart swell up inside of him. Wanted to sing, cartwheel or hug his tall older brother. Grinned, instead, asking,

"Know where I can find a ring on this dust-ball?"

John actually laughed at that.

"Do me a favor," he said, shaking his red-golden head. "A: finish school first. B: help me work out how to… I dunno…"

Alan's head cocked, inside of that orange beat-to-crap surface excursion helmet.

"How to ask Captain O'Bannon to marry you?" he hazarded. Of course, the frequency wasn't private, and everyone had an opinion.

"Just bite the bullet and _ask,"_ Scott suggested; sounding completely directionless over their helmet comms. "That's what I did. No sense making a big fuss. Explain how you feel and make her an offer. She'll bite, or she won't."

Next,

"H*ll with all that. Take 'er t' dinner someplace fancy, an' put the ring down in 'er beer mug. By th' time she gets t' th' bottom an' sees it, she'll be feelin' real mellow. Inclined to agree with y'r proposition," said Taylor (who'd never successfully married, at all).

Even Max had advice to offer, having a robot "girlfriend" of his own. Didn't turn out to be applicable for organic systems, but Brains supplied,

"If it is, ah… is m- meant to be, my f- friend, then nothing shall k- keep you apart. Seize the moment, d- display undaunted courage and t- tell her that your, ah… your f- futures are very much entangled, through this life and all that m- may follow. _Then_ p- produce your engagement ring. I c- can create a very nice l- lab grown gem of whatever size and h- hue you require, J- John. Many f- females display a marked preference for, ah... for p- pink."

Added Caleb, from somewhere inside of their ship,

"Welp… you've inspired me, bro-skees. I just did it. Got down on one knee, and everything. 'Course, I had to... y'know... explain what "marrying" means, but _then_ she said yes. Bam, just like that. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy."

Alan had been watching John's face through all of this. His brother looked like he wanted to climb a tree and pull it up after him… but also like he was listening.

"Congratulations," said John. "I'll, um… take it under advisement. In the meantime, we've got more important things to worry about than my future."

It was Scott who broke in next, remarking,

"For what it's worth, Little Brother, not much rates higher than love. Yeah… we've got a job to do, and the mission…"

"Comes first," everyone chimed in together (even Max, via beeps and wavering trills).

"…but at the end of the day, you've gotta have someone there to come back to. Otherwise, all you are is a rescue machine, and machines break down. If she really matters, get it done. Bottom line."

John had always been incredibly private. All the attention was probably killing him, Alan figured… but it seemed to be sinking in.

Anyways, everyone clambered onboard Thunderbird 7, dividing roles once safely inside. Captain Taylor and Scott would pilot the ship, with John taking over at copilot when the time came to clap onto that unfinished engine and push.

Brains would set up his control centre just aft of the flight deck, igniting and running those twin, massive engines. Caleb and his allies were assigned to supervise four hundred excited young colonists, while the maintenance team and dazed scientists fell to Alan and Max.

Rear crew cabin, passenger hold, maintenance bay; every inhabited space had its view screen and crowd. Once they were locked down and ready, Lee pulled the big silver Bird into orbit, using only impellers to sweep her over that grey, blistered landscape.

"Reckon I'm ready ta disappoint all th' lovely ladies o' Texas, an' settle down my own self," he remarked, nudging 7 out to that unfinished, titanic structure. The towering engine-turned-brace still boiled with swarms of hard-working nanites. Like a shimmering bonfire, it altered and grew as they watched; much too enormous to grasp.

When the time came, their bat-like spaceship turned nose-downward then nestled right into her saddle-shaped brace.

"W- We must push in, ah… in p- perfect synch, my friends. There m- must be no unwanted t- torsion," Brains urged, drawing grunts of assent from Taylor and John.

"Unnerstood, Doc. Say th' word an' give us them figures. We aim ta please, here at Interplanetary Movers, incorporated."

Brains might have smiled. His voice crackled with tension but had that kid-with-toy sound to it, too.

"You m- may consider the word, ah… word g- given, Captain. F- Fire away at half power. J- John, trigger the Alcubierre Drive, if y- you please."

"Copy that."

At one and the same time, two gargantuan engines, the ship and her space-warping drive system thundered awake; opening up at half power. Using captured gas and solar eruptions, the largest rockets ever produced came roaring to life. Their bellowing rumble first shook the planet, then began to propel it. Thunderbird 7 added her own power, many thousands of miles to the north.

It was then that John acted, hanging in his seat straps over the warp console. Using the harnessed might of three solar flares, the astronaut crunched space in front of Mars like a rumpled tablecloth; expanding it out to the rear. The effect was immediate, causing first a violent jostle, then discernible forward motion. Next, the ship itself warped, along with everyone in it. You could _feel_ it. Like hopping a transport disk, you knew you'd been shifted with incredible, gut-clenching speed.

Enormous blue flames shot out of both working engines, looking like a white-hole simulation that Brains had once programmed. Thunderbird 7 shoved down into her gigantic brace, matching both of those rockets for power and thrust.

…and Mars moved. Unbelievably, the sun wobbled and slid, overhead. The ground below rumbled, dented and cracked, triggering violent shockwaves and quakes. Nanobots swarmed all three of those thrusters. They burrowed into the planet, itself; bracing the crust and repairing deep cracks. More than that, the nanites converted ferocious seismic energy to power and mass.

"Th- Three quarters, gentlemen," called Brains, whose face was just inches away from his data screen. Down in the passenger hold, meanwhile, young Sennah squeezed the hand of her heart-friend, Giselle. She was silent, like all of the others; trusting the will of the Undying Masters and their chosen servants.

Out on the flight deck, John throttled up the Alcubierre drive, forgetting everything else but his numbers. Perhaps the Eos of this timeline… Five… was helping him out; smoothing the drive's operation as it gnawed on that horribly massive load. Problems arose and he danced with them, using his mind and that crazy-spectacular warp field; treating spacetime itself like a matador's cape.

Lee Taylor chewed gum and handled the big push, while twin artificial volcanoes opened their throats in a Mars-shaking howl. Past the horizon, but so incredibly tall they were visible, anyhow.

…and the Red Planet moved. Just a little, at first, and then faster; slipping the fiery grip of her sun.

"F- Full power," called Brains; sweating inside of his helmet, making signs of protection to Krishna, Ganesh and Lord Vishnu, himself.

Like the maintenance crew and Caleb's bunch, Alan Tracy was open-mouthed in wonder and awe. With Thunderbird 7 nose-down and shoving, he couldn't get out of his seat. Too much vibration and shock. He could stare at the holo-screen, though; watching the sun shrink away like a puddle in summer. Tracking its claw-like gash through the sky.

"Holy crap," Alan whispered, feeling tears start to prick at the back of his eyeballs. "It's working!"

They had to be careful. Had to time that burn very precisely, because too much thrust would launch Mars out and away, just like Earth. Brains called the cadence, adjusting his engines' power and moving a world.

Kaise, born in a cavern and just now seeing the sun, looked on and wept. Caleb had managed to squeeze sideways into the same crash couch as his green-eyed fiancée. Kissing the top of her braided blonde head, he whispered,

"It's for you, Babe… all this got done because, _you._ Whatever it takes, Kaise n' Caleb forever."

There wasn't a ring to back up his words. Just a rescued planet, sailing grandly away from disaster. That, and a promise he'd made from the heart.


	57. Chapter 57

Many thanks, Creative Girl and "Guest". I appreciate your feedback and encouragement. Hope it's as fun to read as it has been to write. =) Edited.

 **57**

 _High up in Earth orbit, year 2068 of the modern era-_

In a weightless cockpit lit up by earthshine and whole constellations of urgent warning lights, Gordon Tracy peered at a sudden, halfway familiar intruder.

He might've said, "Urr...?" or something equally clever, faced with what looked like a counterfeit Thunderbird 7. Wasn't alone in his puzzlement, either. From back at the remote-pilot station, Janice Ming whispered,

"Gordon, is that… ours?"

The sandy-blond aquanaut couldn't shrug very well in his tight pilot-seat straps. Tried, anyhow; bruising both muscular shoulders.

"Not sure," he told the attractive, unsmiling New Crew commander, "But I mean to find out."

Having switched 3's shielding to cover the massive Pac-Orbital docking ring… and with the balled-up remains of YF-37 now slumping Earthward… Gordon hammered his comm.

"Altered Prototype, from Thunderbird 3. Guys, what's going on? Who's aboard? We've got an emergency over here, if you got a minute."

Almost reflexively, he used 3's giant grappling arms to bat debris away from a lumbering ore freighter, meanwhile telling Jan,

"Get Thunderbird 1 in position to intercept that derelict and keep her from crashing. We've got people on board."

Ordinarily a funny, happy-go-lucky sort, pretty low on the family totem pole, Gordon Tracy was now in charge of this mission… and trying real hard not to screw it all up.

Jan came back with a crisp "F-A-B", at the same time as his comm lit up, projecting the holo image of something not entirely unlike Scott.

"Thunderbird 3," said his maybe-brother, frowning a little, "we have been sent here to find and shift a rogue planet… but there is time, first, for assistance." Next the man added, as though trying out something he'd heard and memorized, "Be right with you."

 _Right…_

Gordon blinked tired hazel eyes. He'd been awake for close to eighteen hours… was beat to crap, but not stupid. Shifting Lucky Ned's worried face to the far left of his heads-up display, the swimmer accused,

"You're… not Scott, are you?"

"No," admitted the other. "This unit _… I…_ am not."

With Earth as a lacy blue backdrop and the sun glaring blistering light from behind them, Thunderbird 7* shifted orientation, _fast._ Seemed almost to flow and change shape, rather than simply turn, as if it was built out of nanites, or something.

As Gordon looked on, too startled to ask further questions, the spaceship engaged some kind of powerful tractor beam, snagging the tumbling sphere and halting its plunge. Not too suddenly, because people could crush like grapes if too much braking force was applied. Gently, over about five minutes. Soft, coruscating light surrounded the dark kernel of YF-37, which began to rise.

Gordon was an athlete and marksman, able to fire rescue harpoons with inhuman accuracy. That's why he spotted something that others might not have: a small, sparkling crystal that shot away from the ersatz Bird like a missile. Took a few blink-cam pictures for later study but didn't have time for much else.

Couldn't scan the Bird or its crew, either. Too well shielded.

"Listen," he said to them. "Virgil and Josh are inside there, possibly under attack. You'll need to haul the vessel aboard and be ready for anything. Some of her crew could be shape-changers." _Speaking of which_ , "I'm Gordon Tracy, Scott Tracy's brother. Who are you?"

The other pilot was busy with flying that big, bat-shaped spacecraft. Beside him, Gordon caught glimpses of someone who almost was Kayo. She seemed to be working the forward launch bay controls, making space for that still-rising derelict. Said the pale, unlined sorta-Scott,

"I was Maintenance-1, a biological construct deployed on Mars to assist with colony function and discipline. I was formerly created at need from a template based on Scott Tracy, who has named me Sam: Synthetic Alternate Me."

"Uh-huh," managed Gordon, digesting all this as well as he could. Evidently, that had been quite some trip to the future… but Virgil and Josh were in danger, and he wasn't about to turn away help. Jan's HUD icon looked pretty skeptical, though. On a private comm link, she said,

"Not sure I trust him, Gordon. Where's the _real_ away team?"

He gave her an impatient headshake and short, quelling grunt, wondering what they had onboard that would work as a weapon. Mopped up the worst of that nuclear engine shrapnel, then winked at Ned's pop-eyed and gaping HUD image.

"Gotta go, Mr. Tedford. Duty calls. My love to Gladys," joked the swimmer, because that's how he wrestled with stress. Noticed transponder signals from the Global-1 squadron, right at the edge of his scanning field. As usual, they'd shown up late for the party.

His empty stomach felt float-y and full of unsettled gas. (There being no way to burp, without gravity. So much for his favourite crowd-pleasing talent…) Reaching across the instrument panel, Gordon Tracy opened a GDF comm line.

"Global-1 fleet, from Thunderbird 3. Thanks for coming, you guys," he greeted that swarm of incoming patrol ships. "Not sure what the situation is aboard YF-37, but there seems to be trouble."

A new holo image popped up, this one showing the squadron commander.

"Thunderbird 3, from Hawk Leader. Lieutenant Rice, here. What sort of trouble? We've been unable to hail Captain Clarke. No response at all from the bridge."

The squadron commander was a thin-faced, dark-eyed guy with a faintly puzzled air; more scholar than athlete or warrior, to Gordon's eye. Looked a little like Alan's friend Conrad, but older.

"Armed takeover attempt would be my guess. I've lost contact with Virgil and Josh," Gordon told him. Transferring control to Jan, the aquanaut unstrapped and pushed himself upward. Floating out of his seat, he added, "I'm grabbing a rocket board and heading over. Jan, shift Thunderbird 1 downstairs to Grandma. You've got the stick, up here. I'm going in."

"Copy that, Thunderbird 3, standing by."

"F-A-B, Gordon."

The aquanaut propelled himself across the cockpit in a quick d*mn hurry, making his way to Thunderbird 3's main equipment locker. By this time, the dark sphere that had been a runaway troop ship was nearly aboard; vanishing into the shadowy hold of a giant spacecraft manned by fake Tracys.

Yeah... Gordon smelt a whole nest of rats. He wasn't an intellectual sort, like Brains or John, but did have courage and muscle in spades… plus Alan's second-best plasma torch. Whatever was waiting, whoever was in there, he'd handle.


	58. Chapter 58

Hello, again! So close to wrapping this up, I can already taste the last line. ;) Thank you for reading. Edits and answers, forthwith.

 **58**

 _Whipping orbital-fast over Earth's surface, year 2068 of the modern era-_

Gordon Tracy did not clamp magnetic boot soles to rocket-board, until he was well inside of the airlock. Once the countdown had ended and all the air was drawn out, he tumbled into position, clambering atop his board just as the outer hatch cycled open, framing an oval of black-velvet space.

Everything was harder… more awkward… in the absence of "up" and "down"; in a place where articles might shift about unexpectedly. Like John returning from space or Alan down in the water, out here all of _his_ instincts were wrong.

Did manage to board the skittering thing, though, using a combination of weight shifts and comm taps to kick up its ion-drive and then shoot right out of the airlock. So… fun fact… tiny scraps of engine debris which looked like harmless, shiny confetti from Thunderbird 3 were frickin' shrapnel, out here; still expanding, still dangerous, and right in his way.

Gordon looked swiftly around himself. A crescent of darkness had appeared at the Earth's eastern edge, he saw, trailing nightfall and twinkling lights like a skirt. A squadron of GDF patrol ships crept slowly nearer, meanwhile; a flight of blue-and-white arrowheads pointing his way.

Thunderbird 3 hung solid and red just behind him, with the hulking Pac-Orbital docking rig seeming an easy star's throw beyond that. At her back there hovered a chaotic logjam of freighters. Off to one side burnt the sun; causing his helmet to buzz a sharp warning, when Gordon reflexively shifted position to look. And overhead, pointing downward, the prototype; almost through hauling up YF-37.

Right. Gordon took a deep breath of canned, hissing air. Found himself missing Eos, who would have made ruthless, sarcastic fun of his clumsiness, while still helping out. He said, using gaze-track and eyeblinks to switch on his comm,

"I'm headed over. Jan, try using a light force pulse to disperse some of this leftover debris. Looks like a warzone, out here." And, all in all, he preferred the deep ocean (with or without mutant crocs).

"F-A-B, Gordon," responded the New Crew commander, sounding overly crisp and professional.

Seconds later, the bubble of pale blue force gleaming wet-slick beneath Pac-Orbital shifted position. Swept like a broom, from giant warehouse to nearby magnetic trash-drifter, clearing his path. Mostly. Old conflicts had left a few cloaked surprises behind, but, hey… why worry till you saw the big flash and woke up in pieces, right? Not like the seas were entirely free of that, either.

"Thanks, Mingster," he kidded her, once that glittering death-cloud had vanished. "You rock. On my way over."

"Copy that, Tracy," she answered, sounding a little bit warmer. More natural. "Stay safe." Her comm holo smiled slightly, even… but Gordon had other concerns.

Up in the uttermost right of his view field was a holo of Charlie; waving at beachside, snug in the arms of a kneeling Zara. Both of them sea-damp and wind-ruffled. Both of them smiling. Gordon took a good look, filling his gaze and his heart, then closed up the image. _Mind on the mission,_ as Scott would have told him. Thoughts of what waited back home would just slow a guy down. Make him too cautious.

"Back before you miss me," he promised the two of them. Then, it was time to get started.

Didn't make _too_ much of a fool of himself, crossing the distance from Thunderbird 3 to the Prototype's launch bay. Wobbled a bit but pressed onward; humming the opening riff to _'Wish they all could be animated beings'_ as he clumsily wavered and looped.

Anyhow, got there; feeling like a determined gnat approaching a mastodon's gaping, tusked maw. The forward launch bay glowed amber-warm and trapezoidal against that silvery hull. Twin, rainbow-hued toroids shimmered and spat, maybe ten meters up from her surface. One fore, one aft. Definitely not your grandma's runabout.

He swooped through the atmospheric retention field with just the faintest all-over tingle, riding his board far into the glowing launch bay. Saw, in clamps overhead, Thunderbird 4, the Mole and Firefly… or souped-up versions thereof. Didn't have much time to gape, because YF-37 had been braced to a halt by the tractor field; hanging there sullen and dark as a smothered coal.

Gordon bent his forward-braced leg, sending the rocket board straight at that stone-silent husk. Up close, he could see that she sparkled and seethed with roiling nanites. Question was, what lay within, and how could he break through, to help?

Well, he reasoned, nanites meant Brains… and that implied HUD comm enabling. Probably. He hoped.

Never quite trusting space to stay out and air to stay in, just because they were trapped by a faint veil of science, Gordon still had on his helmet. Better recycled, breath-scented air than a gruesome surprise. Now, he used the heads-up display to access _'equipment file'_ and then _'nanobots'_. One of the side tabs provided was _'entrance'_. Seemed like a good idea at the time, so… just as two figures shot into the launch bay from an overhead hatch… Gordon clicked on the entry tab.

Results were immediate. The side of that metal dark sphere facing Gordon developed a sudden bright spark of blue light. This expanded wildly, forming a circular gap in the highjacked troop ship's hull.

Gordon noted this with half an eye, because the two newcomers had jetpacked over to join him by then. One of them was the just-about-Kayo he'd glimpsed, earlier. The other looked one h*ll of a lot like John (with shorter red hair, and no space tan). Couldn't help thinking... what if they had one of _him?_ What would it be like to meet himself?

Said the female, dropping to hover in front of his helmeted face,

"Gordon Tracy, I am Sylvie, formerly Maintenance-S. Your brother, John, gave me this name for personal use. I am here with Matt-who-was-Maintenance-2."

She seemed to be in charge, Gordon noticed; as if John, Part 2, was even more quiet and shy than the real one. More likely to keep on the fringe of things.

"We have been sent to assist," she continued, trying a flicker of smile. Nearly reached her green eyes, it did. "We are armed with molecular disruptors but are able to scan and rebuild whatever is broken to particles."

Whole statement might have taken two minutes. Probably less. From inside that warped troop ship, Gordon could hear the sounds of shouting and energy bursts.

He said,

"Brilliant. I'll lead the way. Cover me. All I've got's a short-range plasma torch."

Indicated the thing, where it lay Velcro-ed tight to his spacesuit equipment harness. A GDF patrol ship was nosing up to the containment field, meanwhile. Making ready to enter and land, no doubt, but Gordon didn't intend waiting around to say 'hi'.

Starting forward, he instead switched helmet comm setting to _scan_ , calling loudly,

"Virgil, it's me! Where are you guys?"


	59. Chapter 59

Warning, guys. There are injuries... Edited more.

 **59**

 _Deep inside of a very much altered YF-37:_

They might have been floating weightless in space or plunging straight to their deaths in a sealed metal tomb. There was no way to tell and, anyhow, Virgil trusted his brother. Gordon had things in hand outside, he was certain. Meanwhile, it was up to the pilot to take charge, in here; rescuing crewmen and rounding up hidden shape-changers.

His scan revealed a cluster of unmoving bio-signatures not far away. Or… not far, if their prison had still been a troop ship. You didn't get nanites to smash down a thousand-ton cube and make it a sphere, without shaving bulkheads and knotting up passages. End result: his vessel schematic was pretty much useless, now.

Turning to look at Josh Kelly, Virgil said,

"We can wait for backup or go poke the hornet's nest and see what comes out. What d'you say? Feel like taking a chance?"

The recruit grinned at Virgil.

"I was gonna be an architect," he said, shaking his head somewhat ruefully

"Concert pianist," Virgil admitted, with an answering smile of his own. "Not sorry, though."

"Me, either," said Kelly, flexing broad, space-armoured shoulders. "Let's do this."

…because people were down there in danger, with only IR to save them, and maybe just minutes to act. Mini-Max buzzed and chirped 'round their heads as they spoke; projecting a handy, three-dimensional scan of the immediate area. Virgil studied the glowing green holo for a moment, then grunted.

"Okay. Think I see a way in," he announced, already starting to move. "Follow me, stay low, and don't get yourself killed."

"Yes, _Sir!"_ enthused the young recruit, swooping down that corkscrewing passageway after his boss.

Some of those turns were incredibly tight. Kayo or Alan wouldn't have had much trouble, but two bulky athletes in IR space gear were prone to stick fast like corks in a bottle. Fortunately, Mini-Max could order his nanites to alter configuration a bit; widening a corridor here, unjamming a notebook-sized hatch over there. Still a battle, until at last they squeezed through what felt like a narrow titanium birth-canal, into a curved central space.

Virgil squirmed out of the passage and shot straight across, then carromed off a bulkhead, having too much momentum to slow down or hover. Got a quick impression of smeared, mashed equipment and deeply curved walls, with fifteen, maybe twenty people floating at mid-chamber. Mostly unconscious, they were packed in tight by some kind of shimmering forcefield. Other folks… crew and Marines, he figured… were somehow encased in the walls; visible as roughly humanoid bulges.

A few machines drifted and bounced off the bulkheads, their occasional _thunk_ and _click_ nearly drowned out by a constant, buzzing alarm klaxon. Josh Kelly wriggled out next, kicking free of the tight passage with a low, muttered oath. Unable to stop himself, he collided with Virgil, shoving the big, dark-eyed pilot still further forward.

 _"Urf,"_ grunted Tracy. "Careful. We don't want to…"

His reprimand was cut off when Mini-Max squealed a sudden, shrill warning and all of those drifting machines went vividly crimson. Crackling with stolen energies, the floating junk gained mass and erupted; changing shape between one ragged breath and the next.

A large, multi-bladed monster jetted itself at Virgil, growing limbs and claws as it came. He fired his magnetic grappler, shoving the screeching transmorph back and away through the air, but not before one of its sawblades slashed through his spacesuit, clear down to the flesh underneath. Nailed his right shoulder, _hard._ Blood shot out of the wound like a fountain of scarlet pearls. Somehow, they'd learnt to cut through supposedly puncture-proof armour.

Too shocked and confused to feel pain, yet, Virgil retracted the grappling cable, making ready to fire again. Meanwhile, Josh had unlatched his plasma cutter.

"Hang on, Mr. Tracy, I'm coming!" he bellowed.

Fumbled with turning the torch on, though. Fine movement was tougher out in the field, while wearing heavy d*mn space gloves. Alan or John could've done it, but Kelly was still too raw, too distracted. A thing with a storm of serpentine heads swerved to attack the recruit, who kicked at its snapping jaws while working the switch on his stubborn plasma cutter.

"Oh, shit… oh, shit… c'mon… _please…!"_

Mini-Max warbled a challenge and rushed in to help him, extending a vicious welding tool as he drove at those hissing and clattering _kanni._ Bought Josh an extra handful of seconds. Just enough.

A few yards away, Virgil was losing blood, but couldn't stop fighting. More of those floating machines had begun to change form; taking the shape of weird, mish-mash things out of nightmare. Repeatedly firing his magnetic grapple gun, Virgil thrust them away… until one of them caught at his cable and sliced it apart.

He saw Josh get the plasma torch ignited, filling that circular chamber with eye-searing light. Only, the kid had no place to stand up and brace; didn't yet know quite how to operate jetpack and torch, together. Worse, when he got close to slashing one of their attackers, it changed shape again, taking the form of a wide-eyed and injured Kayo.

 _"Huh?"_ Josh blurted, "But how did…?"

Reflexively, the recruit pulled his stroke short. Almost paid for that act with his life, when "Kayo" extruded a sharp, wasp-like stinger and drove it straight through his body. Then her face opened wide, forming a giant, fanged maw that stuck like a snake

Shouting aloud, Virgil blasted his jetpack over to rip the kid off that long, wicked spike. More blood and bits filled the air, making a haze of wobbling crimson blobs.

Didn't think, just acted. Hauling Josh protectively close, stanching one side of that wound with his hand, one side with his own body, Virgil managed to twist out of his jetpack and sling the still-blazing thing at those transmorphs. Then, taking hold of the sputtering plasma torch, he directed its beam at the soaring jetpack and hit _full burn._

Propellant gases and nuclear fuel exploded on contact with a low, muffled _crump,_ creating a shock wave that slammed Virgil and Josh into a bulkhead and nearly drove them unconscious.

In the force cage at mid-chamber… one of the inmates… female… Virgil made himself focus because, somehow, one of the crew had awakened, and she had a small blaster.

"Not in there!" he shouted, as one by one, the _kanni_ shook off the explosion. "You'll…"

Too late.


	60. Chapter 60

My daughter demands a happy ending. We'll see what happens. Thank you, Creative Girl, Tikatu and Bow Echo, for all your advice and suggestions. In many ways, you have helped to shape and form this story. =) Edited!

 **60**

 _Inside of what had been YF-37, high in Earth orbit-_

 **BOOM!** Like a gigantic war-drum, thundering deep in the bowels of the ship.

Gordon Tracy didn't wait for assent and didn't much question the presence of "Kayo" and "John" … or Sylvie and Matt, as they'd told him to call them. He _knew,_ right down in the core of him, that something had gone very wrong and that Virgil needed his help.

Only, that rumble of shouting and force-blasts came from seemingly everywhere, because the troop ship's passageways had been twisted and curled like the inside of a spiraling seashell. Sound echoed and bounced from a hundred surfaces, impossible to track.

Whatever. Picking a likely direction, Gordon took off, but soon had to stoop and then elbow-crawl. His heads-up display provided a local scan, but the aquanaut still had to backtrack a couple of times, when his chosen route pinched down to the size of an old-style paperback novel or made a sudden hard, upward bend.

He had to abandon the rocket-board almost immediately. There just wasn't room for it, here. Thankfully, his companions provided a spare Mark-III jetpack. (The flat, jazzy kind that Brains had only just started to sketch on his napkins.)

Gordon scooted along on his armoured belly, using occasional bursts of the jetpack, but mostly scraping along like a grimly determined caver; trailing his med-kit and belt. The bulkheads around him were a jumble of densely compacted equipment, with electric-blue nanite-streaks woven throughout, and hatches the size of a tablet screen. Using his HUD, Gordon accessed 'entry' a few more times; cheating his way through that balled-up GDF vessel. Scuttlebutt from WorldGov claimed that the Mechanic had caused the ship's uncontrolled launch… but Gordon was too concerned for his teammates to speculate.

Scans showed a spherical centre chamber with weak bio signs and continual energy flares, so that's what he focused on. That's where he headed, with a pair of synthetic clones in his wake.

Got there a few minutes later, pushing out of a hatch in the overhead (although "up" and "down" had ceased to matter, as his stomach and inner ear had ceased keeping score, and noise came from everywhere, at once). Then, when he righted himself and switched his lamp back to high beam, all hell broke loose.

Gordon was a medic. Best they had on the team. So, he noticed things differently, being mainly attentive to casualties. Like a surreal impressionist painting, he saw blood in the form of bright-scarlet wobbling blobs that dotted the smoky air. Saw droplets flatten and spread like paint whenever they struck a scorched, battered surface. Nor was that all. Nineteen people in a crowded force-bubble hung at mid-chamber. They were bleeding from nostrils and ears, he saw; their eyes rolled back in concussion or shock.

Multi-limbed creatures stalked the chamber, looking like something hatched at a nuclear sewage plant. Working together, they'd cornered…

 _"Virgil!_ Hang on!"t

He had a plasma torch but forgot to ignite it, reaching instead for his med-kit. Virgil was pressedto the bulkhead, fountaining bubbles of blood like bright smoke, holding Josh Kelly protectively close against his own body; armed with not much, at all.

Darting in like a minnow, Gordon shot through the spherical chamber; avoiding spear-limbed monsters like they'd been carved out of stone. As a diver and Olympic gold-medal swimmer, he knew how to move in three dimensions.

The cloned Tracys burst out behind like a couple of guided missiles, took stock of the situation and opened fire. Using something that flared like a miniature sun and reduced its target to dust, Sylvie and Matt dealt with the transmorphs. Gordon hardly noticed.

All he could see was Virgil and Josh. Ought to have first checked the crewmen trapped in that force-bubble, or the dozens seemingly swallowed up by the walls, but did not. Just this once, see, the mission _didn't_ come first.y

"I'm here, Virge. I got you," he said, carefully taking a sputtering plasma torch out of his big brother's hand. "You're safe. You're gonna be fine."

Only… Virgil had lost so much blood. Josh, too. Gordon could see a deep gash cutting clear through his brother's suit and into his chewed-up right shoulder… probable impalement and heavy abdominal injuries, on Kelly. Right. He stripped off his spacesuit gloves and got right to work, because that's what you did; triage, then stabilise patients for transport.

"Talk to me guys. What's your favourite food? Not auto-chef crap… the real thing."

Virgil managed a smile, fighting to focus on Gordon, rather than all of those soft, pretty, welcoming lights. Over wild screeching and sizzling _shhh-cracks_ , the pilot murmured,

"Not hungry, Kiddo… wouldn't say no to a beer, though… and Mom… Mom says "hey" and she loves you."

Something saw-toothed and lighting-swift rushed at them, like a shark intent on its prey. Vanished in a puff of glittering particles, maybe four inches from Gordon's faceplate. He kept talking, placing IV patches and medical nanites; needing an auto-doc, _stat._ Got Mini-Max, who could cauterize wounds with the best of them.

"Cool," Gordon replied, signaling Max to monitor life-signs. "I like beer, too… and "hey," right back. How 'bout you, Josh? What would you like, after all this?"

The bald, dark-skinned young man struggled to open his eyes. Looking at Gordon, he whispered,

"Lobster roll. Want… want a lobster roll… with french-fries and… a super gulp soda... maybe some chocolate ice cream."

He tried to laugh but expelled more blood than air. Gordon worked Quick-Clot into Virgil's wound. Kelly's was trickier, because he couldn't afford to cause further injury or burn vital organs.

"Sounds good," said the busy young medic, letting his face not show what his hands and brain were straining to deal with. "We'll head out to a beach on the mainland, after this, and get ourselves lunch. My treat… if Grandma unlocks her purse, for once."

The sounds of shrieking and force blasts died away as he spoke. Blood, smoke and glittering ash filled the air with a powerful burnt-meat stench. Gordon kept working, administering antibiotics and synthetic blood to both victims, while Mini-Max sprouted more limbs to hold the equipment and patients in place.

Somebody… Sylvie… shot over to join him, oriented about forty-five degrees to Gordon's position. Her helmet was broken. Her face had been slashed across its slim nose and down the left cheek, and she'd lost the smallest finger of her right hand, which was clenched up tight as an oyster. Trailed blood from both wounds like steam from a kettle, but spoke to him, anyhow.

"Gordon Tracy, the unit you are attending to appears near to its…"

"Shut up," he growled, turning back to his half-conscious patients. Was _not_ going to lose either one. Not today. "Want to make yourself useful, see to the people inside that force field, and then pry the rest of them out of the walls. I'm busy."

She hesitated, then gestured at Josh. The edges of her slashed cheek gaped and shut like another mouth, each time she spoke.

"If you wish it, I will scan and discorporate this one, so that he may be reformed again, whole and undamaged."

Gordon took a deep breath but didn't look up.

"Thanks for the offer, Syl. I'll let you know if it comes to that. You wanna be part of this team? Then frickin' act like Kayo! Go save those people."

She nodded serenely, saying,

"Maintenance-2-who-is-Matt-now, is already there. In the meantime, we retain patterns for all of the newly reduced attackers. They, too, may be re-formed… except one that has somehow eluded us."

"Still on the ship?" Gordon demanded, laboring to get Josh Kelly's vital signs stabilised.

"I cannot tell, Gordon Tracy. It seems that when shifted to mechanical form, they are indistinguishable to scan, resembling the rest of the vessel's equipage."

Gordon nodded. Was about to suggest something else, when Virgil came partway conscious, again.

"Till you try… using one," gasped the big pilot, pawing out with one gloved, blood-streaked hand. "Listen… Kane said… said they don't operate right. 'S how you can tell."

"Oh, yeah?" his brother prodded, trying to keep Virgil focused and talking. "Why's that?"

He could hear moans and cursing from the folk in that opened force bubble. Heard and saw a cadre of GDF peacekeepers, squirming in through the overhead hatch.

"They can… look like machines… like cyborgs. Only can't… y'know… function like 'em."

"Uh-huh?" Gordon was losing Josh, and he knew it. Turning to face Mini-Max, who was striped in blood and the shimmering ash of a dozen transmorphs, he said, "I need a path clear through this ship and through Thunderbird 7, Max. Straight to the med-center. I don't give a shit what it takes, or how much we'll owe for damaged property. Make me a Goddam road!"

The small robot beeped assent. His lens covers dipped low over that one big eye, as Max summoned nanites from all over YF-37; authorizing the energy drain to make thousands more.

Just like that, a tunnel gaped wide, right before them; edged in dripping blue light and the crackle of powerful static. Perhaps a fifth of the troop ship's mass vanished at once, converted to hordes of devouring nanobots. But, yeah… Gordon got a lane clear through to medical, plus maybe a one in ten shot to save their fading recruit.

Looking over at Sylvie, he snapped,

"Grab Virgil and follow me. Tell your brother to bring any serious cases right after us. I'm not losing them, Kay. I'm not losing _anyone."_

 _Please…?_


	61. Chapter 61

Thank you for the kind response to last chapter, and sorry for the late replies, you guys. Things have been sort of hairy, at home. Lot's going on... and me with no work to run off to. Edits on their way, soon.

 **61**

 _Space, in the pierced metal shell of YF-37:_

That glimmering, nanite-hewn tunnel drilled its way clear through the troopship and partway into Thunderbird 7. About man-high and arm-spread wide, the passage bristled with dangling wires and steaming, bisected pipes. A howling alarm had blared to life, backed by canned speech in an oddly accented voice.

 _"Warning… interior breech detected… structural damage sustained… Warning… interior breech detected…"_ and, so on.

Gordon paid his surroundings no more attention than it took to avoid getting burnt or electrocuted. Just grabbed hold of Josh Kelly and started to move; kicking off against bulkhead and gear to speed himself forward.

The Kayo-clone… Sylvie… was right behind him with Virgil clutched tight in her arms. Like the recruit, Virgil had lost a great deal of blood. Bulky space armour made first aid and buddy care almost impossible, especially while under attack. How could you stanch a wound that couldn't be reached?

Gordon fought to control his own breathing. He kept himself professional, because right now they needed a rescue technician, not a brother or friend. Forced himself to call up a ship-scan, rather than hope that the future Thunderbird 7 was exactly like _his._ Gordon couldn't afford to make a wrong turn when the clock of their faltering heartbeat and dwindling blood pressure was ticking away, close to zero.

Thankfully, the giant Bird's medical centre hadn't been shifted around by later tenants. Expanded, yes. Relocated, never. Its equipment had gotten some major upgrades; advanced beyond anything Gordon Tracy had ever seen or heard tell of. Sensing his confusion, the Med Centre scanned them all. Next, its computer lit up the relevant gear and started a friendly tutorial using chibi anime figures and speech bubbles. Any other time, the aquanaut might have felt insulted. Talked down to. Not now; this time, he was desperately glad for the help.

Moving with tremendous speed and leashed power, Gordon got Josh into… not a med harness… some kind of glowing, bio-electrical force bubble, roughly shaped like a human being.

He still had his field medic's kit, with two or three stasis patches hidden away beneath a false bottom. _Absolute_ last resort, because the patches slowed a patient's molecular motion and biological functions to near-nothing, converting the subject into a rock-hard, super-dense statue. Better than dead, only… sometimes the process could not be reversed. Sometimes the person you'd meant to heal was instead gone forever; turned into their own life-sized grave marker. Officially, he had to have next-of-kin or government permission to use the things… and Kelly's mom wasn't on hand.

He had Mini-Max fish one out, anyhow, just in case. With plan B standing by and ready to go, Gordon maneuvered the dying young man into an auto-doc field. Then, very carefully, he started removing that punctured and leaking chest armour. A holographic scan of the injury popped into Gordon's heads-up display, along with prognosis, possible courses of treatment… and a Goddam permission slip.

"Yes. All of the above, right the h*ll _now,"_ he snapped, setting the auto-doc's limbs into blurry-fast motion. Nearby, a bloodied Sylvie and Max were doing the same thing for Virgil. Gordon shot over to help, gliding back and forth between the two unconscious patients, with Max as his interface. In the meantime, the future-Bird tended to itself, harnessing nanites to heal the tunnel they'd drilled through walls and equipment. Eventually, that howling alarm noise cut off.

Yeah… _duh,_ he had questions. Didn't get how there were clones of his siblings here, or a Prototype revved beyond anything he could have imagined. Seven hundred short years had accomplished all _that?_ How? He was too busy monitoring progress and helping Sylvie to wonder aloud, though.

His helmet comm went off as he was tending to Sylvie's gashed face, spraying anti-bac and NuSkin onto the impassive girl. Receiving the "incoming call" sparkle and ping, Gordon pushed away from her to float back a bit, saying,

"Gordon Tracy. Go ahead."

His brother's holo appeared. John's, that is, looking tired, tense and concerned.

"Gordon, it's me. What's your situation? I just came across on the transport disk with Scott and Captain Taylor. They're talking to Grandma. I'm headed upstairs to Thunderbird 5. Need help?"

The sandy-haired aquanaut managed a weak, crooked smile. Mostly kept the shake out of his voice when he said,

"We've had some casualties, John. Short version is, Kane did something to screw up a transport the GDF sent out to arrest him. It went shooting up at a major shipping lane, coming to pieces and loaded with shape-changers. Virgil and Josh went aboard to shut off its engines, while I moved the freighters and defended Pac-Orbital. Crap headed south in a hurry, though."

John's image frowned, moving around as though making adjustments to something unseen.

"Who's injured? How badly?"

"Uh… Josh and, um… and Virgil. Pretty bad, John. Abdominal impalement with severe organ damage, and right-shoulder gash with fractured clavicle and chipped sternum. Serious foreign body intrusions from damaged spacesuits. But, um… the auto-docs aboard Thunderbird 7 are doing all they can."

John nodded, turning his head slightly as though reacting to another, out-of-view, call. Looking at Gordon again, he said,

"Sit tight. Scott and Lee are commandeering Brains' repair flitter. They're on their way up. You've got a light cruiser from Global-1 hailing, as well. There's a medical officer on board." Then, "Breathe. I mean it. Virgil and Josh are still alive because of you, Gordon. You patched them both up and got them to safety. Stop kicking yourself in the ass."

Gordon snorted, handing Sylvie an antiseptic wipe before starting on her amputated finger.

"That obvious?" he asked. Just, y'know, glad to hear somebody's voice. Glad for the reassurance.

"Afraid so. I've known you for twenty-four years, Gordon. You're a total slob in your personal life… and a perfectionist at work. Except, sometimes all we can do is the best we can do, then leave the rest to fate and good doctors."

"I know. That's what I keep telling myself," he responded, barely loud enough for the mic to pick up.

His red-haired brother smiled, then signed off, saying,

"Gotta go. Incoming message, but the right guy was there when they needed him, Gordon. That's what matters."

The shaken young man took a deep, calming breath. Sometimes, you really needed a brother, y'know? Anyhow, feeling a little bit better, he busied himself disinfecting and cauterizing Sylvie's mauled hand. Like Josh and Virgil, she'd got bits of her spacesuit driven into the ugly wound. And like them, she was tough as a horse and still fighting. The beautiful girl had been listening to Gordon's side of that conversation. Now she told him,

"Your touch is gentle. There is not just skill, but caring, behind what you've done for me and these others."

He felt something funny, then; like an affectionate kitten had rubbed up on the inside of his head. Weird… but kind of nice. More people were entering medical, now; injured crewmen, brought through the hatchway by Matt and a handful of GDF peacekeepers. Mini-Max uttered a resolute chirp, and then buzzed right over to get them all sorted.

Before turning to help, Gordon smiled at his sister's scarred clone, saying,

"We're International Rescue, not International Get-it-all-right-the-first-time. Sometimes, I have trouble remembering that. Later… once all this trouble's cleared up… will you tell me about yourself and Matt? How you got cloned, and why? I'd like a chance to talk to you guys."

Sylvie's head cocked. Her face, so like Kayo's except for that broad NuSkin stripe, lit up in a very brief smile.

"Talk, socially," she said, in a reverent whisper. "An exchange of pleasantries and anecdotes often held over stimulant beverages and purchased food. Yes, Gordon Tracy, I would derive pleasure from speaking with you at a later time."

And then, seeing something warm and accepting, deep in his mind… some half-glimpsed memory… Sylvie leaned forward and kissed the side of his helmet. Although her mouth didn't touch him, her mind brushed his, just where a kiss-memory was stored up. He _felt_ that older caress and smiled.

Then, with a hold full of concussed, broken-limbed people… with a transmorph loose somewhere aboard, and his patients beginning to heal… it was time to get back to work.


	62. Chapter 62

Many thanks, Bow Echo, Tikatu and Thunderbird Shadow. I appreciate all your comments and suggestions. =) Tired, now, but will edit soon. Edited more.

 **62**

 _The transport lab, Tracy Island, far below ground-_

A full thirteen months later, his time, but less than three days, locally, Scott Tracy materialised on-pad like a weary, electronic ghost. Once he'd fully solidified… once his view had shifted from narrow transport booth to brightly lit workspace… he stepped down off of that crackling disk. No one at the control station, but there didn't need to be; not with Max gear-deep in the system, handling all of their leaps.

 _Home._ He was back, with an urgent message from John about Thunderbird 7 already lighting his comm. Gordon had run into trouble, apparently, somewhere in orbit. The pilot sighed, raking a hand through his springy brown hair. He'd wanted a chance to relax, shower and spend time with Penny… but clearly, that wasn't happening.

Right. Scott moved away from the still-warm transport disk, rolling his head around his shoulders to crack a stiff neck. Behind him, another light flared and somebody else appeared. Captain Lee Taylor, who sprang from the disk like a mountain goat, grinning all over his seamed, cheerful face. Then John called, more or less simultaneously.

"Hey, Scott," said his brother's holo, projecting up from his wrist comm. "Welcome back. I've got the maintenance flitter warmed up on pad eight. Topping off fuel, as we speak."

"Uh-huh," grunted the pilot, reacquainting himself with Earth gravity (and teaching his legs to hold two-hundred-thirty-five pounds, again). "What the h*ll's going on, up there?"

John made a short, impatient noise; sort of a musical "I dunno" grunt. Then,

"Kane seems to have expressed his displeasure with WorldGov by launching one of their troopships at Pac-Orbital. Chaos ensued."

"Boy, howdy!" mused Lee, stroking his moustache. "A feller cain't turn his back f'r two days…"

"Three," interjected Scott. "It's been nearly three days _here,_ since we left for Mars, Sir." Over a year, future time.

"H*ll," scoffed the well-seasoned astronaut, ambling forward. "Could 'a been twenty minutes. They'd 'a still found some way ta court disaster, marry 'er up, an' raise a passel o' tiny fanged nightmares."

He might have been having trouble adjusting back to 1-G, but if so, Captain Taylor was hiding it… and the boys didn't ask. Too well brought up.

Said John, working on something off camera,

"It's been busy, alright, Sir. There are some transmorphs mixed up in this, too. Virgil and Josh have been injured, but Gordon's brought them to Medical, and the Maintenance team are on site. They could use some help managing the GDF, is all."

Scott nodded, giving the redhead a brief, weary smile. Starting out of the lab, he said,

"Got it, Little Brother. Tell Gordon we're on our way. Don't suppose you could have coffee and sandwiches loaded aboard that flitter, could you?" His stomach was practicing arias, loudly enough to be heard on the continent.

"Done," said his brother's image, drifting along in the air beside Scott and Lee Taylor. "Hang on… docking with Thunderbird 5…" and apparently talking to somebody else. Gordon, maybe. John was a busy guy, but he liked it that way, Scott supposed.

Anyhow, he and Taylor made it down through a half-mile of tunnels to the hangar level, where Brains' little maintenance flitter was fueled and waiting. They suited up before climbing aboard, because Mars-type excursion gear wasn't rated to deal with conditions in space.

…Especially after they'd triggered that Genesis bomb, and then allowed their environment suits to lay around gathering dust. Would have been a stretch to claim that the Red Planet was now a garden spot… but it did have blue skies, a huge Southern Ocean and plenty of shy, creeping plant life. Insects, too.

Up to Dad, Alan, Piper and Brains… with the help of those colonists and former Proximan convicts… to release the next wave of lifeforms. Scott Tracy was done with Mars. So was John, who'd left after six months there, showing up fifteen minutes prior to Scott and Lee, here. Time was a funny thing, and the exhausted pilot was done with playing its games, _forever._ Just had to get that massive rogue planet diverted, was all. But that was the clones' job, not his.

Grandma rang, next; wanting more details than Scott had time to give her. He had to summarize, instead, assuring Sally that _yes,_ he and Uncle Lee were fine. _Of course,_ they'd have a chance to talk later, and _naturally,_ they'd all be back in time for supper. Who could say no to warmed over gingerbread meatloaf?

Lee broke in after that; making Grandma laugh with his boasting and outrageous compliments. Scott tuned it all out and kept walking. He and Captain Taylor strode up-ramp and into the small spacecraft, sending a horde of maintenance bots scurrying off in every direction like roaches. One of the Mini-Maxes was already aboard, tending a plastic grav-cart of coffee and snacks. He beeped in greeting as Scott snagged a bag of crisps, a drink and two roast beef sandwiches. Thanking Max, the pilot ducked into the cockpit, hearing the flitter's engine hum to life and its airlock slam shut.

Taylor glanced his way, pale blue eyes brimming with mischief.

"Flip ya f'r th' stick, Spence," he offered, looking around for somewhere to set his coffee cup. Only, Scott was too tired to take the bait.

"Go ahead, Sir. If you want to fly us up there, she's all yours. Can't eat a sandwich in microgravity, though, so I suggest you wolf down your food and let Max taxi us out of the hangar."

Lee cocked a heavy dark eyebrow.

"Son, I was flyin' spacecraft afore y'r daddy could chew solid food an' wipe his own ass. Now, siddown an' get some rest. I'll wake ya when we get there."

Scott took a deep breath that somehow turned into a jaw-cracking yawn. Any other time, he might have argued. Only, right then a padded copilot's seat, hot coffee and roast beef on rye (with plenty of mustard) were just too good to pass up. Plus, it meant that he didn't have to listen while Taylor _flirted_ (there was no other word for it) with his blushing grandmother.

Pretending not to notice, he ate the sandwiches and balled up their plastic wrappers, tucking the trash into an armrest bin. Next drank scorching hot coffee made almost syrupy-thick with sugar; closing his eyes and holding each mouthful to savor the taste. Satisfied, Scott tucked his packet of barbecue crisps away in a sash pocket. No sense scattering crumbs that would only float back to haunt him, later.

He stretched till his joints cracked and then strapped himself in. Felt the flitter turn completely around on its pad, then rise about ten feet into the air. Yawned a lot but stayed conscious long enough to send Penny a message: _Home, Pen. Quick trip to TB7. Back in a few. Love you._

Afterward, as the flitter swooped like an owl from her hangar, Scott settled into his seat. No place on Earth like a cockpit, you know? Vibration, warmth, comm chatter… peace.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Spence! Spencer! Wake up, Son. We're here."

Scott opened his eyes and closed his mouth, which had fallen open in sleep. He blinked a few times, half-recalling the bumps and rumble of launch. The switch to freefall and all the strange dreams that it triggered. Wasn't as much of a spaceman as Dad, Alan or John, but better than Virgil or Gordon.

Shifting around in his seat just a bit, Scott squinted out through the viewscreen.

"I'm awake, Sir. Thank you. I needed that rest." And he did feel better. Almost no headache, at all.

Thunderbird 7 (Part II) hung right there before them, shining with red and green running lights and a last bit of Earth glow. Her forward launch bay gleamed like the downturned mouth of an unhappy jack-O-lantern. Inside, Scott saw something that looked like a dark metal sphere, shot all over with nanobot streaks. The troopship?

"Hunh," he grunted. " _That_ doesn't look good. Kane may have pushed it too far, this time."

Lee worked his mouth around from one side to the other, chewing gum and considering life.

"Not sure he's th' one ta blame f'r all that, Spence. Ain't ever known th' Mechanic ta use nanites. That's Doc."

Scott shrugged as well as he could while bound up in safety straps and space armour.

"You could be right, Sir. Hang on, I'll get Gordon or Sam on the comm."

There was a pale green GDF cruiser sliding close, marked with Global-1's call sign. Possible trouble, there. Captain O'Bannon was downstairs recovering, meaning that somebody else was in charge of the operation. That, plus the threat of those transmorphs, made his pulse start to race.

 _Home_ … but not home-free, yet. Scott locked his helmet in place and switched on the comm. Clearing his throat, he called out to Gordon as they skimmed near to Thunderbird 7 and whatever waited inside.


	63. Chapter 63

Guess this is as good a place as any to leave off. Thank you. It's been a fun story to write. Edited.

 **63**

 _Mars, 700 FN, at the eastern flank of Olympos Mons-_

That towering scarp and great peak were not wreathed in dense clouds of water. The mountain projected far too high in the air for such things… and the engine that capped her rose even higher. Instead, the mist that surrounded Olympos was entirely artificial. Swarms of nanites worked like mad to disassemble the huge, blackened thruster, but even at top speed, their business was going to take time. You didn't move one-fourth of pillaged Mercury in a hurry.

Jeff Tracy stood in place, feet braced apart, hands on his hips. Looking upward, he watched a smoke-stream of nanobots ferry bits of scavenged metal away from that now-silent engine. Stood there without a spacesuit, decked only in light environment gear. The air was still fairly cold… about forty-seven degrees Fahrenheit… but he needed no helmet. As for his wrist comm… well, that he'd left far behind him on purpose, needing some peace and quiet.

Oddly enough, his perma-glass sealed "first footprint" was close by. Well… its container, anyhow. All of that engine-rumble and motion had erased Jeff's booted print, but not his memories. And maybe an explorer's first step no longer mattered.

He smiled a little, looking around at a Mars transformed. A Mars with breathable air and streams of shimmering water. With hardy plants metabolizing organic chemicals dumped on that rugged surface by a Genesis bomb. Already, the rumpled hills had grown soft, velvet-green with new growth. The sun in that freshly blue sky no longer scorched, this far out, but warmed and caressed; providing energy to run all those newly sprung life cycles.

Something incredibly fragile buzzed near, then; settling briefly on Tracy's right arm. Gently, he turned his head to regard a small, lace-winged miracle. A Martian insect. Holding his breath, Jeff watched as it rested there on his blue-clad arm, reflecting sunlight from wings like slow-flapping amethyst glass. Like a dragonfly, almost, but different; altered to suit a new world. It was a perfect moment. Then, someone called out,

"Dad! Hey, Dad… Oh, there you are! Couldn't raise you on wrist comm, Sir! Had to use bio-scans."

…and the bug took flight. It spiraled off into the air, innocent of all threat from birds, reptiles and fish. At this point, you see, Mars had no predators.

Jeff sighed, turning to face Alan, his youngest son. The boy bounded over, hurrying across a landscape of rocky dunes held together by low, scrubby weeds and tough lichen.

"Afternoon, Son,' said Jeff, composing himself. "What's on your mind?"

Alan drew nearer, showing both of his Martian birthdays in new height and muscle.

"Brains and Caleb 're ready for phase three, Sir, but they want the official go-ahead. Need your thumbprint, or something."

The grinning young man wasn't wearing a helmet, either. His golden-blond hair fluttered right into those merry blue eyes, pushed around by a Martian zephyr. Piper wasn't with him, but then, she'd been tasked with getting everyone settled; integrating young, naïve colonists with Proximan settlers and thawed Earth refugees… plus a handful of recycled scientists. Big job, and one that Pip took quite seriously.

Reluctant to leave, Jeff spared another quick glance at Olympos Mons and its brain-strainingly massive adornment. Then, he turned squarely around to face Alan.

"I'll be right there, Son. Was just…"

"Squeezing in a little alone time?" the boy guessed, cocking his head to one side and wincing in sympathy. The settlement was many things. Peaceful, definitely not one of them.

Jeff puffed out a breath of fresh air, adding organics, moisture and bacteria to Mars' infant biosphere.

"Guilty as charged," the Colonel admitted, smiling back. "Sometimes, Alan, it's nice to get away from constant decision-making. Why in the h*ll _anyone_ wants to rule the world is beyond me. Small planet, tiny population, and after two years, I already want to throw it back."

Alan chuckled, squinting against bright morning sunshine.

"Heh! Maybe, if the Hood was here, he'd figure out what a crap job being in charge really is, and find himself a new hobby," he joked.

Jeff snorted, starting back for the Settlement.

"Tyrants make life easier for themselves by turning everyone they meet into slaves, Alan. Decisions are only hard when you take others' welfare into account. If no one else matters but you…" the Colonel trailed off, shrugging.

"You do whatever you want, and to heck with the rest?" Alan finished, falling into step beside his tall father. Together, they strode along the faint trail, careful not to damage seedling plants and small bugs on their way.

"Not sure I'll ever understand him, Alan," Jeff mused, not exactly hurrying. "He hates normal humans _so_ much. That is… I mean…"

Alan looked across at his father; alert and eager as a golden retriever pup. Like his brothers, Al knew that he was somehow stronger, tougher and faster than average… but he didn't know why. Destined to be disappointed, though, if he expected answers today.

"The Hood hates not being on top and hates _us_ for constantly blocking his power schemes," Jeff edited, not really explaining anything.

Alan started to respond as they picked their way through a patch of fragile lavender drift-weed. Fortunately, the settlement was only a few kilometers off, crowning the north ridge. Built of scavenged metal, plastic and stone, it resembled a hodgepodge thrown together by careless giants… or a committee. Jeff picked up his pace, saying,

"Back to business, Son. I believe that you have a solar power station to construct."

The young astronaut fidgeted, staring to nod. Then, he burst out with,

"Dad, I just want to know why I'm like this! Why we all are! Why Gordon can stand crushing depths and John can survive fifteen Gs and re-entry outside his dang space elevator, and I can…"

Jeff looked away, shaking his head. Brown eyes distant and cool, he said,

"Not now, Alan. I have reasons you can't understand, but they're good ones."

That bug hadn't learnt to fear predators, yet. Had never harmed any plants, either. Didn't need to, with all of that G-bomb food still scattered about like manna. Innocent. This whole, fresh new world was a gentle and innocent paradise, like the one he'd tried to create for his family, back on the Island.

Alan could have just clammed up and got on with it. That's what Scott or John would have done. Then again, he wasn't _them._ As his father turned to walk off, Al blurted,

"It's scary, sometimes, Dad… not knowing what's going on. Trying… trying to figure out what made us this way."

Jeff hesitated. Tall, grey-haired and still very powerful. Unyielding as the cold Martian rock that surrounded them.

"When the time comes, you'll know," he told Alan, his voice gone low and brusque. Then, "If anything happens to me, I've told Scott enough to get by with… but I don't want you bothering him."

Subject closed, father and son ascended a switch-backed trail to the Settlement's main gate; silent except for a gusting wind and their crunching steps. Close to the top, Jeff surprised himself by adding,

"I'm sorry. I would have liked you boys to grow up normally. Tried for that; first with the farm, then the ranch… but we were needed, Alan. The world needs heroes, and I couldn't duck out. Couldn't stop fighting. Please… try to understand. They need our help. They always will."

Impulsively, Alan reached out to clasp his father's broad shoulder. This was as close to understanding the man as he'd ever come. For six long years, Jeff Tracy had been torn from his grieving family. Alan had only been ten when his father had vanished, so for him, their time together on Mars had been a real gift.

"Sir," he whispered, "whatever it is, we can handle it, and we've got your back. I promise."

Jeff was still for a moment. Then he moved on, pulling free of Al's warm, urgent grip. Lucy would have been proud, he thought, striding in through the settlement gate. She'd have loved every one of them, from tense, harried Scott and quiet, shy John to creative Virgil. From her athletic, fun-loving "tadpole" to soft-hearted and questing young Alan. And Tin-Tin, his princess…! How Lucy would have loved having a daughter!

"They're wonderful, Lu," Jeff murmured, letting the wind take his words. "We did good work."


End file.
